Shadows of the Past
by Quill N. Inque
Summary: When Danny angers Clockwork by blowing off his History class, the powerful ghost decides to let him experience history firsthand...by throwing him back in time to the height of the American Revolution! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

"_Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it."-Anonymous_

Chapter 1: Time Warp

(A/N: Let me just set a few things straight right from the get-go, 'kay? One: Danny WILL have his powers in this fic, but their use will be minimal. This is partly due to the fact that this story centers on Danny _Fenton_ rather than his super-hero counterpart. Second, historical versions of the DP cast WILL be making an appearance, as well as a few real-life Revolutionary generals and other folks. Lastly, Danny is sixteen in this story. And, in case you're wondering, this fic is NOT a continuity of any of my other DP fics.)

_Prologue_

_Casper High School, one hour ago…_

Danny Fenton tried to keep his eyes glazing over as he slumped at his desk, his pencil and paper lying abandoned by his elbow. The classroom, heavy with the smell of old books and chalk dust, seemed to make the boy's senses swim as he struggled valiantly to keep himself awake in the face of yet another one of Mr. Lancer's mind-numbingly boring lectures.

Lancer's teachings were lost upon Danny as the venerable educator scribbled notes on the chalkboard. "…Thus, when General Howe captured New York City, Washington took his army and, under the cover of darkness, snuck across the border and into New Jersey."

The teacher turned around, annoyance on his features as he spotted Danny dozing semi-consciously at his desk. "Mr. Fenton," he said grimly, "Perhaps you would care to elaborate on why Washington chose to make his encampment there. Since you've obviously been paying _so _much attention, it shouldn't be a problem."

The fact that Lancer was zeroing in on Danny caused his head to snap up. "Uh…"

A rare glimpse of weariness crossed Lancer's face. "Just once, Mr. Fenton, would it be so difficult for you to actually get _involved _with what I'm trying to teach the class?"

_It'd be easy if it weren't so _boring,Danny thought silently, but he made no audible reply to Lancer's inquiry. _What's the point of learning about stuff that happened two hundred years ago, anyway? Besides, this stuff is so BORING!_

"See me after class, Mr. Fenton," Lancer glared at him before turning back to the chalkboard. "You and I need to have a few words."

_If only it were just a few, _Danny muttered to himself. _But knowing long-winded Lancer, I bet he'll keep me here for _at _least an hour! _

_I hate history, _he concluded bitterly. _It's just a bunch of stupid dates and places… _

"Time…_out._"

At the sound of a familiar voice, everything suddenly _stopped._

Lancer's mouth paused in mid-lecture, his hand still half-raised. The birds left off in the midst of their singing, the leaves stopped blowing as the wind came to a halt, and the entire Earth seemed to stand still all at the push of a button.

Danny, now completely alert, bolted upright in his desk as Clockwork, the Master of Time, materialized not a few feet from the boy's chair. Danny began to smile at the sight of his friend, but the expression faded as he saw the angry look that Clockwork directed his way.

The powerful entity shook his head sadly, his body reverting from an old man's to a toddler's in the space of a second. "You disappoint me, Danny."

"_Clockwork?_" the boy asked confusedly. "What are you doing here?"

"You forget that I see everything that was, is, and is to be," Clockwork intoned, growing wrathful. "And my heart aches to see the ignorance you have just demonstrated. Even after your confrontation with your evil future self and having to alter the flow of the timestream to avert his creation, you still fail to grasp the fundamental principle of what I have been trying to help you learn all along."

"And that would be…?" Danny couldn't help be curious.

"That the past, present, and future all _are _intertwined," the ghost replied harshly, making Danny flinch. "Each one affects the others, and none can exist without each other's influence! I was _there _when your forefathers bled and died to give you the things you take for granted! I was _there _when your ancestors risked _everything _for their posterity, and the way you brush it all off makes me sick."

Clockwork raised his staff and thrust it downward, slamming it against the floor and sending a shockwave of green energy in all directions. An eerie-looking, swirling portal of green miasma opened just behind Danny's desk, and its pull began tugging on the boy's clothes as the Master of Time's voice rose to a crescendo.

"Since you think the work of those men was so easy, you shall bear an equal portion of their unimaginable burden. You will partake in every hardship and experience every deprivation, to suffer as your ancestors suffered! Danny Fenton, you shall pay the price for your apathy, and it shall be great indeed, for I _banish _you into the days of yore that you have so easily forgotten! There you shall stay, and only when you truly realize your error shall I allow you to return!"

Clockwork kicked Danny's seat out from under him, and the boy cried out in panic as the portal sucked him like soda through a straw.

Blackness claimed him.

_Now…_

Danny opened his eyes blearily, his fingers twitching as his consciousness began to return to him. He groaned to himself and tried to get into a sitting position-

Something coarse and fiber-like moved under his fingers, and he realized that he had landed in a considerable amount of straw. Danny blinked in confusion as he began to stand, but no sooner had the boy struggled to his feet than an angry voice reached his ears.

"Hoi! _You!_" A furious-looking man with a pitchfork in his grasp started running toward him. "Does my haycart look like an inn? Get outta there, _now, _before I call the watchman!"

Danny suddenly noticed, then, that he had indeed found himself in some kind of horse-drawn vehicle, and he put up his arms in a placating gesture as he hastened to comply. "Sorry," he said, trying to stay out of reach from the pitchfork's tines. "It won't happen again."

"Damn right, it won't!" the farmer snarled. "Now be off with ye, boy, an' go an' plague someone else!"

_What a jerk, _Danny thought as he stepped into the street. _It's not like I _meant _to land there or anything._

His footsteps stopped abruptly as Danny began to notice his surroundings. _What the…?_

It was immediately apparent to the Dorothy of this tale that he was _not _in Kansas anymore.

The first thing that came to mind is that the whole place looked like some sort of re-enactment. The streets were not paved with asphalt or concrete, but rather lined with square-cut cobblestones that clattered under the wheels of the carriages as they passed by. There were none of the familiar criss-crossing telephone wires dangling overhead, nor did the red and green stoplights dangle over the intersections. There were no lamps by the sidewalk, no mailboxes, no cars, nor any of the other things Danny was accustomed to.

The buildings seemed antiquated as well. Built of either wood or brick, their roofs were made of thin slides of slate or, for the less well-off, thatched with straw. None of the residential houses exceeded more than one story; in fact, it would have been more accurate to call some of them cottages instead. And the places of business, too, seemed…_old_, for lack of a better term. Instead of displaying their wares in neon signs and lights, the only denotation of what was being bought or sold was a small wooden sign painted with a name and some kind of crude picture. It was obvious that Danny was in some kind of city, but its size seemed miniscule compared to the super-metropolises he'd grown used to.

The people here seemed just as foreign to Danny. Dapper-looking gentlemen, young and old, strutted about with feather-lined tricorne hats and elaborate waistcoats, their legs clad in white or stockings with black, silver-buckled shoes on their feet. Many carried a cane or walking stick topped by a bulbous gold-tipped head, and they bid a good day to the ladies with a nod and a tip of their ridiculous-looking headgear.

The women, too, dressed strangely. Any who happened to be out and about today carried an assortment of elaborate-looking umbrellas even though it wasn't raining, and their faces were done out in white powder and rouge. Their long, bell-shaped dresses seemed to be so big that they carried the edges in front of them when they walked, and Danny couldn't help but laugh when he tried to imagine some poor tailor attempting to get _Sam _into one of those things.

Snatches of conversation from the passersby reached his ears, and this, too, confirmed that Danny was so far out of his comfort zone that anyone within couldn't see him with binoculars.

"Fresh fish for two shillings a pound? They're stark raving mad!"

"Did you happen to hear what befell the cobbler yesterday morn?"

"Mr. Jacobs, it is a delight to see you again!"

"And you as well, sir! It is a most agreeable happenstance that we ran into each other like this!"

"My good man, did you happen to hear that our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Jennings, got engaged just seven days past? And to the Livingstons' girl, no less!"

Danny felt fear begin to chill the blood in his veins as Clockwork's parting words came back to him. "Oh, _crap…_" he whispered, his heart plunging into his innards. "He didn't really…"

The boy stepped out into the street, and Danny gulped nervously as he approached an older-looking gentleman who was browsing the display window of a nearby bakery.

"Um…Excuse me…" Danny began, clearing his throat.

The other man straightened and looked over his monocle disapprovingly. "What is it, boy? I've got precious little time to spare, you know."

"I was just wondering, um, what year it is."

"Surely you jest," the old one arched an eyebrow. "Have you been shut up in your bedroom all this time?"

"You could say that," Danny muttered.

"Then I suggest you read the news-paper sometime," the gentleman replied as he walked past. "But because I wish to be on my way again, I shall tell you only once that it is the year of our Lord 1776."

Danny's heart skipped a beat as his face turned pale. "What?" he whispered, his voice small.

Panicked, he whirled around and glanced upward-

-Only to be confronted with the sight of the British flag flying from the tallest building in the city.

_Oh, my God._

"This can't be happening," Danny muttered as he collapsed against an adjacent wall, his mind racing. _What am I supposed to do? I have no money, no idea how to get back home and no way to contact my friends!_

He took a deep breath, trying to come up with some kind of plan. _If anything, I stick out like a sore thumb in these clothes,_ Danny realized, getting up quickly. _And right now the last thing I want to do is draw-_

"Hold, citizen!" An authoritative voice called out before Danny had taken three steps.

_-Attention,_ the boy finished morosely, stopping and turning around.

What Danny next saw was hardly encouraging.

Three men, clad in bright red uniforms, stared balefully back at him, their polished boots reflecting the boy's uncomfortable expression.

Danny assumed that right now the best thing for his overall health and welfare was to be complacent, so that's what he did. "Um…is there a problem, officer?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Why do you sit idle like that?" a soldier with sergeant's chevrons on his sleeve demanded with the tone of one used to being obeyed. "Where is your master?"

"What?"

The speaker abruptly backhanded Danny across the face. "Don't take that tone with one of His Majesty's men, _whelp_!" he snarled. "What reason do you have for being out on the street? Are you not learning a trade, as productive young men of society do? Speak, before I loosen your tongue with the lash for your insolence!"

Danny, furious at how he was being treated, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth before looking the British soldier straight in the eye. "I'm not from around here," he explained.

"Just got off the boat, did you?"

_Yeah, let's go with that. _"Mm-hmm."

"And what was the name of the vessel that ferried you to this New York City?" the soldier demanded. "Did you pay for your passage in coin or with indenture?"

Danny, having no money and also no idea what the term "indenture" meant, was momentarily lost for words as he tried to think of some kind of explanation.

A moment was enough for the belligerent soldier. "Ah-ha! This dog is a stowaway!" he barked, signaling to his two companions. "Clap him in irons, men! Seize him!"

"Can I give you guys a raincheck on that?" Danny asked as he switched to his ghost form, to the soldiers' consternation. "I've kinda got my own problems to worry about. And by the way, you can tell King what's-his-face to go eat his crown, for all I care. See ya!"

Something split the air with a sharp _crack, _and Danny gasped as a musket ball sailed past his ear. _I've got to remember not to do that unless it's absolutely necessary,_ he told himself firmly as the city shrank beneath him. _Otherwise I could end up being shot at from _both _sides!_

Suburban sprawl gave way to the beautiful green countryside, though where Danny was headed he wasn't sure. He'd never been to the Northeast coast in his life, and if anything, the topography was vastly different than what one would find on a map in Danny's time. For heaven's sake, the entire city of New York could fit into just one of its present-day subdivisions!

He felt his heart clench as the full weight of Clockwork's punishment settled on his shoulders, and one thought, above all else, continually flashed through his mind.

_How I am going to get back home?_

A/N: To new friends, welcome! To old friends, welcome back! First off, as many of you may have guessed, I'm a history buff. It has always been and remains my greatest passion in life, and I truly believe that if we forget the past, then we condemn the future. Thus, this story is very special to me in a personal sense. But in any case, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this first chapter, 'cause lemme tell ya, it only gets better! Coming up in the next installment, Danny runs into an officer in the Continental Army and "volunteers" for service…. And PLEASE REVIEW! If YOU have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. I think we all know at least one person who could use a refresher course in Professor Clockwork's History 101. XD


	2. Chapter 2

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 2: Conscription

_New Jersey, November 7__th__, 1776_

It was a cold, clear morning that saw a tired and dispirited Danny Fenton flying along his way above the muddy, unpaved road and the dark, verdant trees that shaded it from the sun's first rays. The beginning vestiges of winter's frost were just starting to make the leaves and grass brittle underfoot, and Danny's breath came in clouds as he silently bemoaned his recent onset of misfortune.

To be perfectly honest, Danny was still having a hard time coming to terms with Clockwork's swift and painful judgment. Everything here seemed almost alien to him, and the food, customs and speech all seemed somewhat frightening in their unfamiliarity.

Danny cursed softly as he shot through the air, his stomach rumbling like an awakening beast. The few bills he carried in his wallet were worthless in this day and age, and thus he'd had neither the resources nor the time to fill his belly after his hasty exodus from New York City.

Danny felt a shudder travel down his spine. It was obvious that the metropolis that would one day come to signify all things American had either fallen to the British or had been abandoned once the fighting had started. Some part of him felt as if a wasp had delivered a stinging wound as Danny remembered the sight of the Union Jack flying above the New York skyline, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. It was barely more than a village right now, not even a shadow of what it would one day grow to be, and yet…

And yet, the principle remained the same.

Danny sighed to himself. Why did he even care? He'd never been to NYC before, even in his own time! There was no reason for him to feel so irked, as far as he knew, and yet Danny felt some tangible part of him seem to recoil at the memory.

Danny's stomach growled again. _I've been in this century for less than a full day, and I've already been slapped, shot at, threatened with a pitchfork and almost arrested. Then I barely escape Sergeant Slaugter and his cartoon rejects only to realize I'm starving and I have no money. _

_Dammit…_

Danny's misery was momentarily dissipated, for as he continued his flight to freedom a soft, warm glow caught the young man's eye. The quaint, remote New Jersey village that hove into was almost completely dark, save for the yellow light that bathed the quiet street in its golden rays.

Danny had never seen anything so inviting. If he couldn't fill his belly, he could at least come out of the cold until the sunrise banished the morning frost. The ghost boy conducted a quick survey of the lanes below to ensure that no prying eyes might witness his transformation, and once Danny was convinced that his secret would indeed remain intact, he touched down and quickly reverted to his human form.

The bright flash of bioluminescence that heralded Danny's transformation vanished as quickly as it appeared, and the sparse glow of an overhanging lantern gave off just enough light for Danny to read the sign that dangled above his head.

_Big Bertha's Tavern and Inn_, the woodwork trumpeted. _Fresh Ale Served Daily._

Danny grimaced. "No thanks," he said dryly, pulling the door open. "I'm still a minor."

A blast of warm air, laden with a myriad of scents and sounds, momentarily overloaded Danny's nose and ears and caused him to become somewhat disoriented as he stepped inside, but the young man was immensely grateful for the merrily blazing fire that banished the cold dampness from his bones.

It was loud in here, too. The air vibrated with a perpetual onslaught of gawdy, off-tune ballads sung by inebriated farmers who had spent the evening downing mug after mug of rich, brown ale, and the bewhiskered, fellows who eked out a living in the New Jersey soil shouted and bantered drunkenly with each other long into the wee hours of the morning. The waitresses, too, engaged in ribald comments and witticisms with the tavern's patrons, and if anything they seemed even tougher than the men whose mugs they continuously refilled.

The air was hot, sullen, and thick, hazy with the reeking smoke of tobacco that burned in pipes of wood or bone. Here and there, Danny caught whiffs of solid New Jersey fare as the tavern's staff carried laden plates to and fro. Fresh eggs, goat's cheese, and slabs of beef that had come of the steer not six hours past threw Danny's salivary glands into overdrive, and he forced himself to look away at the sight of everyone else gorging themselves as if they had lived through a famine of Biblical proportions.

A tall, heavily built and solid-looking woman bustled up to Danny as he slumped at the table, her voice shrill yet warm as she shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"Come in from the fields, did ya, lad?" she asked in a vaguely Scottish accent. "Well, sit yerself doon an' take yer ease, my good fellow! What can I bring you this early in the morn?"

Danny almost fell over from his chair. Big Bertha (for it could only be she), certainly lived up to her reputation. The woman from whom the tavern drew its name stood nigh on six feet tall, her arms and legs as thick as hamhocks from a lifetime of busy but joyful labor. Bertha was no longer young, but though the corners of her mouth and eyes were wrinkled with age, the tarnished-copper pupils twinkled with both merriment and fierce determination. Her hair was slate gray and streaked with white, held together in a tight bun to keep it out of the way, and now Danny quailed slightly under her seemingly fiery gaze.

"I…uh…" he struggled to think of a plausible alibi. "I just came into get out of the cold," he said. "I don't have any money or anything."

Almost before Danny had finished speaking, a small pile of coins _plonked _on the table's edge.

"No need to worry, lad," the newcomer said, before addressing Bertha. "Give him whatever he wants, ma'am. I'm buying."

Danny almost automatically turned down the offer, for fear that he would be intruding. "No, really, I'm fine. I-"

_GROOOOWL!_

The boy blushed as his stomach roared in protest.

"That so?" the older man said. "Methinks your gullet is saying something different."

"Well…maybe just a bite," Danny conceded.

"Mind if I join you? I could do with a meal myself."

"By all means," Danny gestured to a chair, his voice wry. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

Bertha set a pair of leather mugs in front of them, and the stranger drained his in a few mighty swigs before banging it down and offering his hand. "The name's Young," he said. "Colonel Joseph Young of the Continental Army, the 11th New Jersey Regiment."

"You're a soldier?"

"Well, that depends on who you ask," Young chortled. "To Washington and his boys, I am indeed a soldier. To the redcoats and their wretched King, I'm a traitor, as are any who stand with me."

"But no pressure or anything," Danny joked, trying to keep his voice light.

"On the contrary, the pressure's _on_ now," Young said mournfully, gazing into the bottom of his tankard.

Danny pushed his own drink away in favor of attacking a platter of sizzling beef. "How so?" he asked, curious despite himself.

The Colonel snorted. "Where have you been for the past three years, boy? Don't ya know nothin'?"

"I was…abroad," Danny lied.

"Well, it all got started after the war with the French," Young began, leaning back in his chair. "Them boys in Parliament decided that the colonies had to bear the brunt of the expense of fightin' the war. So they passed a series of taxes on pretty much everything coming over from Britain to raise funds. As a result, the prices of items like porcelain, manufactured goods, and especially tea doubled overnight! That ain't fair, though, 'cause _we _weren't given a say in the matter, see? An' furthermore, we've bin lookin' after ourselves just fine for almost a hundred years! Britain's always left us to mind ourselves before, but then that thrice-damned George III came along and decided to start micromanaging everything. He took away our elected assemblies when we boycotted against the taxes, blockaded the entire coast with his navy and sent troops into Boston 'cause the folks there were stirring up trouble. The men o' Boston went out one night, see, and dumped a whole lot of tea into the harbor on account of they didn't wanna pay the tax on it. So then the King sends a squad of men o' war and a couple hundred troops over here to close down the harbor until the all tea's paid for, an' even has the _gall _t'make those folks give the lobsterbacks room and board in their own houses, at _their _expense!"

Danny stopped eating in mid-bite. "Can he _do _that?"

"He's the King, an' as long as he's got Parliament on his side, he can do whatever he damn well wants to!" Young said, spitting on the floor for emphasis. "Anyhow, things came to a head after the redcoats an' some militiamen took potshots at each other over in Lexington and Concord, further up north. Now _all _the colonies are up in arms against the redcoats, but so far it ain't goin' well for us. New York fell to the King's men just a few months past, an' word has it that British are gonna hit Philadelphia come summertime. To top it all off, the Army's dwindlin'. General Washington fled over here to New Jersey after he lost New York, an' a lot o' my men are headin' home 'cause they think the war's lost already! We're down to five thousand troops, and we'll lose a lot more when enlistments are up at New Year's."

Danny choked on his meal. "Washington? As in, _George Washington_?"

"Aye, what's your point?" The Colonel asked, confused.

"Nothing," Danny said hastily.

"If the King wins this war," Young concluded gravely, "life ain't gonna be worth living for very much longer." As if on cue, three men in ragged blue uniforms entered the tavern and took a position behind the Colonel's chair. "I hate to do this to you, son, but we're runnin' out of both time and options. An' it ain't about _us._ It's about what we leave behind."

The man slid a torn and stained piece of paper across the table, his eyes sad.

"What's this?" Danny asked, unable to read the smudged printing.

"Terms of enlistment," the Colonel replied softly. "You're a fighter, boy. I can see it in your eyes. We _need _more folks like you, now more than ever."

"Can I take a pass on that?" Danny replied, growing more nervous with each passing second.

Young reached slowly into his belt, and the boy felt his knees begin wobbling as the Colonel pointed a plain-looking flintlock pistol right in his face.

The officer cocked the gun's hammer back with an ominous _click._

"I'm afraid it ain't an offer that can be declined, son."

Danny felt the color drain from his face as his appetite rapidly deserted him. The full meaning of Clockwork's parting words came back to him with the force of a thunderbolt, and Danny gritted his teeth angrily at what was being forced upon him.

"So you're going to shoot me if I don't sign that paper?"

"I hope it doesn't come to that," the Colonel replied softly. "I don't like this anymore than you do, boy. Prob'ly even less so, in truth."

Danny briefly considered using his powers to escape the impending subscription, but-

-_If I don't do this, I'll never get back home! _Danny thought furiously. _Damn it! Clockwork probably planned this from the beginning!_

Danny forced himself to snap back to reality, and his tone was flat and devoid of emotion when next he spoke.

"You got a pen?"

Colonel Young gave him a sad smile. "Welcome to the Continental Army, my lad…"

A/N: Uh, oh! Danny's luck just gets worse and worse! In the next chapter, we will become acquainted with the ancestors of some of the DP cast as Danny is turned into a reluctant soldier! But don't get too comfortable, 'cause our hero's first taste of backwoods-style warfare lies just down the street and around the bend! (Yes, there WILL be a fight scene in the near future, and some plot twists as well!) And, on a different note, I'd like to address some concerns my readers have submitted concerning Danny's encounter with Clockwork in the first chapter. *Sighs* Okay, fine. You know what? I'm gonna come right out and say it: you guys were right. I was so eager to get the story moving that, looking back now, I see that I kinda shoehorned that part in there. But I'm not too proud to admit that I made a mistake, and as soon as the opportunity presents itself I intend to go back and edit that particular passage. Again, thanks to all of you who informed me of my error, and if YOU have any comments, suggestions or ideas, LET ME KNOW!


	3. Chapter 3

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

_(A/N: Just so you know, one of my all-time favorite songs, "Requiem for a Dream," is the theme music of this fic. I think goes really well with it, too, considering the hardships and trials I have planned for Danny in the next few chapters! *Wink* The song is all over the place on Youtube, so if any of you would like a lovely musical selection while you're reading, please feel free to bring it up! I always find that appropriate instrumental accompaniment enhances the experience and helps to immerse the reader in the story. ^^)_

Chapter 3: The Reluctant Recruit

It was a confused, frightened, and utterly out-of-place Danny Fenton that hesitantly entered the base camp of the Continental Army.

Danny's legs _hurt._ After "inviting" him to join the Patriot ranks, Colonel Young and his men had thrust the boy into a horse's saddle and ridden off into the night with Danny in tow. They'd traveled hard and fast, not stopping for breath nor nutritional sustenance, and it was because Danny was unused to such rough riding that the inside of his thighs burned and ached every time he moved. The Colonel and his subordinates had no such problems, largely due to the fact that equestrian skills were necessary in this particular century, and Danny found himself somewhat jealous and even embarrassed that they bore such physical tasks with ease while he struggled. How soft and doughy he must seem in the eyes of those around him! It went without question that Danny still did _not _want to be here, but nonetheless, he didn't want to look _bad._

Danny suffered more than his daily share of embarrassment in high school, anyway.

The soft, muddy ground _squelched _under Danny's sneakers, and he tried to avoid the patronizing and judgmental stares of those he passed by. Danny's clothing was as alien to his new comrades as the soldiers' dress seemed antiquated and corny to _him,_ and now he ran a hand through his hair nervously to hint at the unbearable anxiety that made his stomach churn.

The fact of the matter was that Danny, willing or not, was now a soldier. Green and inexperienced, certainly, but a soldier nonetheless.

And the function of a soldier was simple, stark, and grim. No matter how he might try to avoid it, no matter how he might deny it, Danny Fenton only had one purpose as just another face in the Continental ranks.

Sooner or later, Danny would, to ensure his _own _survival, be forced to kill another human being. He'd have to look down the barrel of a gun, stare into his enemy's eyes, and pull the trigger. The person on the other end would die amidst the _crack _of igniting powder, and Danny, in turn, would live to see the coming dawn.

That still didn't make it right.

Danny stopped in mid-step, taking a few deep breaths as he valiantly forced down the vomit that threatened to spew forth from his bowels. His vision swam, a murky miasma filled with horrifying visions as Danny's fearful mind conjured up the image of a pitiless lead ball slamming into a human rib cage, emitting a geyser of blood as his foe expired.

Danny shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the carnage his brain was thinking up. He breathed deeply, almost as if the oxygen would cleanse the rotten and festering self-hatred that had risen in the wake of Danny's awful epiphany, and only when the last sour remnants of bile had faded from his taste buds did the boy resume walking.

He tried to take his mind off of his hopeless situation by taking stock of his new surroundings, and though Danny hated to admit it, the Colonel who had so forcefully conscripted him was right on at least _one _score. The Continental Army was indeed dwindling, and Danny was somewhat surprised at just how _few _of them there were. Five thousand men seemed like a lot, at least in a numerical sense, but when compared to the forces that the British had brought over from England, it seemed a mere pittance.

The Army itself, Danny was shocked to see, was in a most pitiable condition. More than a third of the men who remained fit for duty were not the trained, professional troops Danny had expected, but rather a ragtag and motley collection of sparsely-trained farmers in civilian garb, hard-drinking frontiersmen in fringe and leather, and young men just barely older than Danny himself, many of whom could barely even hold a musket. While many of those who chose to stay and fight to the end of their enlistment were not lacking in courage, very few of them were familiar or disciplined enough with 18th century warfare to constitute a legitimate fighting force in a head-on battle with the redcoats.

_Not that I'm any better, _ Danny thought dryly. _I don't even know what kind of weapons they're using…_

"You there, boy!" a harsh, commanding tone caught Danny's attention, and he turned to see Colonel Young stomping towards him with a wrathful look upon his face.

"You're not here to admire the scenery!" Young said sternly. "Stop lollygaggin', hear? The supply officer's tent is over that way, an' God help you if you don't have a musket and bayonet in your arms when I get back!"

"Fine, fine, I'm going," Danny muttered, turning to leave.

The boy gasped as Young caught his arm and bellowed, "THAT'S NO WAY TO ADDRESS YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER, BOY! DO THAT AGAIN AN' I'LL HAVE YOU BROUGHT UP ON INSUBORDINATION!"

"Yessir!" Danny squeaked breathlessly, thoroughly intimidated.

The Colonel's fury immediately dissipated, and he punched Danny lightly on the shoulder. "See? You're catching on already," he smiled. "Most of these boys need a kick their arses to even roll outta bed!"

Danny nodded, speechless with momentary shock, and hastily made his way to the canvas structure that Young had pointed out to him. The smoke from a myriad of campfires began to make Danny's eyes sting as he tried to catch his breath, and the tent flap of the so-called "supply officer" was thrust sloppily open.

A heavily bewhiskered, bearded man in a tattered blue uniform with ragged coattails clomped outside in sludge-encrusted boots. "Need a weapon, do ya?"

_No, I _don't _need a weapon, _ Danny thought desperately, his stomach writhing in revulsion as the grizzled soldier pressed a long, heavy firearm into his hand._ I don't _want _a weapon. I feel queasy just _looking _at weapons, and now I've got to use one to kill people. Something I promised never to do, by the way._

The scratched and pitted wood of the smooth-bore musket Danny clutched in his fingers seemed to be unbearably heavy. It was not remarkable or distinct in any way, with a dull-grey metal barrel and a body of dark wood that seemed to be neither fully black nor brown. A slim metal rod was stored just beneath the barrel's tip, pushed into a matching slot that seemed to have been hollowed out for that very purpose.

"There's yer musket," the older fellow growled, reaching into a nearby barrel as he spoke. "An' I hope ya have better luck than its previous owner," he added, reaching a hand into the barrel's confines.

Danny almost wretched with horror as the commissar pressed a long, thin, triangular piece of wickedly sharp, shining metal into his fingers. It was obviously a blade of some kind, keen and double-edged, and fixed to some kind of socket whose function as yet remained a mystery.

"That there's yer bayonet," the man continued. "And if ya break it, tough darts, mate. We ain't got enough of them as it is, and right now there's no way to get more. Unless ya take it off a redcoat," he added, "that's perfectly fine, as long as _you're _the one who killed 'im, see? Spoils o' war and all that."

Danny felt so sick he thought he'd keel over. "Thank you," he managed to gurgle, desperately trying to keep Big Bertha's cooking down as his intestines squirmed.

"You one of Young's boys?" the supply officer enquired.

"Yeah- I mean, yessir," Danny corrected himself quickly, remembering the Colonel's tongue lashing only a moment before. _Not that I had a choice._

"Then yer unit's over there," the soldier told him, pointing across the rows of tents to a particular section of camp. "Best be on yer way now."

Danny needed no second bidding. If the Colonel could lose his temper so easily over a mistake in military etiquette, Danny didn't even want to _think _about what would happen if he were late.

With firearm in one hand and bayonet in the other, a dispirited Danny once more made haste to, as the saying goes, "report for duty."

Now somewhat out of breath, Danny saw the rows of tents and ramshackle huts fly by in a dizzying blur as he made haste to join his new unit, not through love or loyalty, but through fear. The mud stained the hem of Danny's jeans with a sickly brown color, and the sound of the Colonel's now-much dreaded, gravelly tones made Danny's skin break out in goosebumps as he hurriedly fell in line.

The 11th New Jersey was neither small nor large. Colonel Young had, at this very moment, two hundred and fifty men fit for duty under his command. They were gathered at the very edge of the camp's perimeter, presumably for some kind of practice or drill, and their numbers were laid out in five ranks of fifty hard and haggard faces. Unlike Danny, who seemed as flawless as a newborn in comparison, these were obviously soldiers who had already been hardened in the heat of battle. The 11th New Jersey had only narrowly avoided destruction when the British captured New York City, and it was not a far stretch of reason to assume that the Colonel's men had fought like wildcats just to make their escape. Their features scarred, their muskets battered, their bayonets chipped with use, the hardened fighters of the 11th New Jersey gave no quarter and asked none in return.

But, despite their tough and hardy nature, the soldiers with whom Danny had been forced to join were not up to the task of facing the British Army out in the open. No, these men had been schooled in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, New York and Connecticut, making their living as hunters, trappers, or mountain herdsmen. They were used to sniping from under the cover of stone and tree, ambushing the foe and disappearing like smoke on the wind. This made the Colonel's fighters expert marksmen and experienced forest fighters, but the downside was that they could not be relied on to maintain their discipline on the open plains and fields where the wars of the 18th century were fought.

Then again, these pioneers of guerilla warfare were _perfect_ for harassing British supply lines, destroying or plundering wagons full of food and ammunition while bushwhacking small groups of redcoats who strayed off the beaten path with utter mercilessness. Already, the efforts of the 11th New Jersey and other such units had made them the bane of every British commissar and logistics officer on the American seaboard.

They also scared the hell out of poor Danny as they stood like silent sentinels, facing away from camp with their weapons pointed out into the thicket of various arboreal specimens.

A balding man with the embellishments of a sergeant's rank upon his tattered sleeves paced up and down the lines of stone-faced Patriots. Though Danny had never met this fellow before, he seemed…oddly familiar.

"Sergeant Lancer," Colonel Young said brusquely. "The General has requested the presence of myself and the other senior officers in his tent. See to it that my boys don't grow fat and lazy while I'm gone."

"Yes, sir," Lancer saluted, in a tone that made the fluids in Danny's body turn to ice.

_I know that voice…_ He thought, horrified. _Lancer, as in…_Mr. Lancer_? Seriously?_ Danny felt his heart sink into his stomach but then a happy thought occurred to him. _Well, at least _Dash _isn't here…._

"Front and center, Corporal Baxter!" Lancer barked, in a characteristically dry tone that seemed identical to that of Danny's teacher.

The boy felt like burying his head in his hands. _Oh, Jesus, no…._

A young man with facial features remarkably similar to those of Casper High's resident football star abruptly stepped out of formation, drawing a somewhat worn-looking sword that seemed to denote his rank. Danny gripped his weapon fearfully, having no idea what he was supposed to do in a situation such as this. The boy had never even been in ROTC before, much less a soldier.

The blade rasped from the scabbard at Baxter's side, and the Corporal held it aloft as he called out orders. "Make read-y!" he called out, elongated the final syllable of the latter word for some kind of emphasis.

Two hundred and forty-nine wooden rifles slammed into the dirt as the soldiers commenced loading their weapons, and Danny felt utterly clueless until Lancer's wry voice drew his attention.

"You must be the Colonel's latest conscript," Lancer observed, his tone neither patronizing nor sympathetic. "Fenton, isn't it?"

Danny nodded, his cheeks heating with embarrassment.

"Have you never touched a musket before, boy?" the Sergeant asked.

The boy shook his head mutely, to a chorus of snickers and a few catcalls from everyone within earshot.

"Well, you're going to be an expert on that before the sun sets today," Lancer continued, smiling grimly as he shoved a lead musket ball and a paper-wrapped cartridge into Danny's palm. "When you bunk down tonight, you will know how to aim, load and shoot as easily as you know how to breathe. Corporal, help me further this young man's education."

"Yes, sir!" Baxter barked, his smile predatory as he loomed over the hapless Danny. "Dig the mud out of your ears and listen, Fen-_turd_. Understand?"

Danny was almost tempted to fall on his bayonet rather than show submission to Dash's bullying ancestor, but right now it wouldn't be beneficial for him to anger the Corporal or anyone else.

"Yes…sir."

"There ya go," Dash grinned, gripping a paper cartridge of his own. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

_Actually, it was, _Danny thought bitterly. _You have _no idea_ how hard it was for me to say that._

"See this?" The Corporal waved the brown, cylindrical shape under Danny's nose. "Tear it open with your teeth, like this." Baxter did just that, and motioned for Danny to imitate him.

The boy did not relish putting such a thing in his mouth, but everything he'd done so far had been against his will, too. The thought of eventually returning to his own time was the only thing that motivated Danny to tear the paper top off with his front teeth and expose a small amount of silvery-black gunpowder.

"Don't hesitate like that!" Baxter snapped in Danny's face. "If you do that when the lobsterbacks show up you'll be dead before the fighting even starts! Hesitation, as well as overconfidence, will kill you faster than a cannon or bayonet any day!"

"Yes, sir," Danny said, trying not to gag on the words.

"Now pour some of that powder into the barrel's bore," Baxter continued. "Don't put too much, or the whole weapon will blow up in your face, but don't put too little either, 'cause then you'll have a misfire!"

Someone within the sea of grizzled faces sniggered. "Mebbe I should go some dice, eh? We might be able to go a few rounds before the lad finishes loadin' 'is weapon!"

Danny felt the tips of his ears turn crimson as _everyone _started howling with merriment as his expense. His hands shook with the force of his embarrassment as Danny emptied a portion of the gunpowder into his own musket. Baxter began speaking again, and Danny tried to concentrate on what the bully was saying for the sole reason of distracting himself from his humiliation.

"Once you've done that, take the ball and ram it down in there good and tight," The Corporal concluded. "See the ramrod, there?" he asked, pointing toward the slender metal tool that Danny had noticed before. "Slide it out and use the flattened end to pack the powder and ammunition together."

Danny hurried to comply, pushing and pulling the whippy piece of steel back and forth to a curious rasping sound that came from inside his musket's bore.

"_Now _that thing's almost read to fire," Baxter added. "The hammer-" Pausing, the Corporal pointed to an S-shaped protuberance that ended in a pair of clasps, and these worked to hold a rough-looking piece of stone in place. "-holds that piece of flint. When you cock it back and pull the trigger, it hits the pan-" Again, Baxter paused to point out a tiny metal shelf that was positioned proportionate to the hammer's downward strike. –" And strikes a spark, which ignites the powder."

_Where's Dad's Ecto-Bazooka when I really need it?_ Danny thought mournfully, complying once more with Baxter's rough lesson.

The rest of the regiment, who'd long since had their own pieces ready, stood straight attention once more as the Corporal hurried to one side, out of the line of fire.

"Take Ai-m!" he shouted, again elongating the last syllable of the word.

In almost perfect unison, five ranks of firearms were brought to bear like the spines of some lethal hedgehog, Danny's shaking weapon among them. The boy fought to control his breathing, and his heart pounded in his chest.

"Battali-on…" Baxter roared, raising his blade aloft before bringing it down again. "FIRE!"

In a trice, the air was so thick with the reek of spent powder that it seared Danny's eyes and made his respiration difficult, and his ears rang with the sound of over a hundred sharp _cracks _as his comrades sent a fullisade of devastating lead shrieking on its way. Had it made contact with an equal number of the enemy, Danny knew, the damage would have been enough to cause significant casualties.

Firing in ranks made sense, he admitted. After all, the Law of Averages favored this strategy. When one has regiments or divisions or even entire armies sending volleys of fire at each other, each side is bound to hit _something._

The icy hand of fear gripped Danny's heart once more. What if that "something" was _him?_ He thought, his mind racing. _I could just use my powers, but if I do, I risk exposure! But on the other hand, if I _don't, _I might wind up dead and _this _Lancer's schoolteacher descendent will have classes looking at my bones in some museum!_

Their daily drill completed, the fighters began to disperse like a cup with a hole in the bottom. Danny went to join, them-

-But was stopped by a grinning Corporal Baxter.

"Not so fast, Fen-_turd_," he grinned. "_You_ still have a lot to learn…"

Danny took a moment to consider cutting his wrists with his bayonet before sadly gripping the stock of his musket once more. _I wonder which circle of Hell I've landed in, _he thought. _I'm betting it's at _least _the sixth…_

_Epilogue_

_Colonel Joseph Young saluted as he politely entered the tent of the Continental Army's Commander-in-Chief. Though the older man who now held the fate of a nation in precarious balance was facing away from his subordinate, it was obvious as to the man's identity._

"_You sent for me, sir?" Young asked._

"_I did, Joseph," George Washington said, his face still averted while he concentrated on the mountain of paperwork in front of him. The white wig that was customary of gentlemen at this time still remained completely white despite the General's ink-stained hands, and it was these hands that now handed the Colonel a piece of parchment that bore hastily scribbled writing upon it._

"_Your orders," Washington clarified. "New Jersey's been overrun with militia on both sides since we lost New York, and you are well aware that more enlistments expire with each passing day. At this rate, I will only have a handful of men available to me by Christmas."_

"_What would you have me do?" Young asked dutifully._

"_I need more men," Washington stated. "There are many abroad in the countryside who support our cause, as well as those who oppose it. You are to make contact with leaders of the Patriot militia and bring them back here for official enlistment."_

"_And what of the Loyalists, sir?" The Colonel inquired._

"_I'd prefer it if you didn't give Cornwallis a reason to leave New York with his army and march all the way here," Washington replied. "This is a recruitment mission _only_, Colonel. You are to engage the Loyalists only if the need is dire. I want you to have your men ready to move out by dawn. Dismissed."_

_With that, the man who would forever make his mark on history turned once more to his work._

_The Colonel snapped a salute once more. "Yes, sir."_

A/N: Poor Danny's luck isn't improving, and I think it's about to get a whole lot WORSE! *Insert creepy organ music* MWAHAHAHAHAHA! I think you all deserved a nice, longer chapter this time around, and I hope you enjoyed it! Coming up, Danny not only meets the ancestor of one of his friends, but is also forced into the limelight when the Colonel's mission doesn't go quite as planned! And PLEASE review! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	4. Chapter 4

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 4: Trial by Fire

(A/N: Let me set the record straight, okay? Doubtless you'll know which DP ancestor I'm talking about once you read this, but in any case I want to state, loud and clear, that I do _not _condone the practice of slavery, whether it be in the past, present, or future. The only reason it is even being mentioned is to give this character a plausible back story that would conform with the historical setting of this fic. I do _not_, in any way, shape or form, approve of hatred being directed against anyone on any basis whatsoever. Thus, I shall endeavor to touch on this subject as briefly as possible, and I write this author's note to avoid giving any of you the wrong impression. ^^)

_Prologue_

_The New Jersey Countryside, November 1776, two hours ago…_

_Danny Fenton felt the soles of his feet beat with a slowly throbbing ache as he forced himself to continue onward. The black, ragged boots, which had replaced the boy's soft-soled and comfortable sneakers, only added to Danny's discomfort as the rough leather rubbed against his heel so as to spawn a pair of painfully twinging blisters. The lances of pain that arced up his legs whenever Danny lifted his instep off the ground made him grimace, and the sun, which had seemed so inviting before, had turned into a merciless tormentor. The golden orb's heat was sparse with the onset of winter, but to Danny, the scorching yellow rays seemed unbearably hot. The wooden musket and bayonet that he had been issued seemed made of lead as Danny cradled the weapon's stock in one arm, its once-varnished barrel pointed skyward at a slight angler over its wielder's shoulder._

_The choking cloud of dust that had been churned up by two hundred and fifty pairs of marching feet made Danny cough and try to rub the grit out of his eyes, and as he scrubbed furiously with the back of his sleeve his mind briefly flashed back to the rapid course of events that had led up to his current situation._

_Danny had been shaken into wakefulness hours before dawn, still tired from the bullying Corporal Baxter's grueling lesson the previous evening. The officer had pushed the hapless Danny hard, drilling him relentless in the proper priming, loading, and firing of a musket until the boy's fingers felt leaden and his knuckles were skinned and sore. The heel of Baxter's boot had dug into Danny's side as he'd roared out orders, telling the men of the 11__th__ New Jersey Regiment that new orders had been issued and the unit would be moving out shortly. Danny had hurriedly slipped into bedraggled blue uniform that had been given to him, an obvious hand-me-down of white breeches, matching shirt and a blue jacket with coattails. Scarcely sixty minutes more had seen the Colonel's men marching through the thick, tree-covered New Jersey forest with a still-groggy Danny struggling to stay in step under Baxter's watchful eye._

_That had been some hours ago._

_Danny was hungry. The food he'd been given before collapsing into his ramshackle tent last night had been terrible, but he'd have gladly accepted another portion if it meant having some extra energy for this seemingly endless march. No man had been allowed to bring anything along, save for weapons, ammunition, and one day's rations, and Danny had made the rookie mistake of eating his almost right away. This, in turn, had given rise to a series of stomach cramps that had only just recently subsided._

_Danny glanced once more at the weapon he held in his wrist. To Baxter's credit (and it pained Danny to admit it), the Corporal's rough and coarse lessons seemed to have made an impression. Danny was no longer clueless as to the musket's more minute workings, and he was reasonably certain that he could shoot somewhat accurately. He may not be a sharpshooter like some of the others, but Danny's current level of skill would suffice for now._

_He felt the vomit rise in his throat once more. It is worth noting yet again that Danny was in absolutely no hurry to kill anyone, and the fact that he and the rest of his comrades were likely being marched to some kind of killing field made his heart ache. Fighting ghosts and sucking them into the Fenton Thermos was one thing, but shooting someone was quite another matter entirely._

_Danny almost sobbed. How would he live with himself if he extinguished the life of another? Would he start walking down the path that would lead to the rise of his evil future self? How could he even look at himself in the mirror after committing such an unspeakable act?_

_Danny grinned wryly as the old saying "war is hell" flashed through his brain. No kidding…_

"_You nervous?" a very familiar voice to Danny's left asked._

_The fact that someone was actually trying to talk to him instead of making him the butt of some mean-spirited joke caught Danny's attention, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he slowly turned to glance at the speaker._ No way…

_A dark-skinned young man who looked to be about Danny's age grinned wryly as he continued, "That's good, you know. It keeps you on your toes."_

"_Um…" Danny struggled to find words as he stared at the man who bore a shocking resemblance to his close friend, Tucker. "Thanks," he said finally._

"_Don't mention it," the other boy replied. "I only just joined up a few weeks before you did, so it's my first time, too. The name's Foley, by the way. Just Foley."_

"_Danny Fenton," Danny replied warmly, offering Tucker's ancestor his hand in the universal gesture of greeting. "Were you, uh, 'conscripted,' too?"_

"_Nah, I joined up 'cause I wanted to," Foley replied. "And trust me, you actually got off pretty lightly. If you think they were hard on you, you should have seen what they said when I walked into camp on my first day of active duty."_

"_What are you talking about?" Danny asked, confused._

_Foley sighed. "I signed on to the Army because I'm hoping life under the bigwigs in the Continental Congress will be better than life under the King, especially for folks like me. I was lucky I was even permitted to enlist, but I guess with things the way they are, Washington and his boys can't be too picky."_

"_Folks like you?" Danny parroted slowly, his face becoming drawn with horror as he realized where this conversation was going. "You mean…"_

"_Yup," Tucker shrugged it off. "Up until now, colored fellows haven't been allowed to enlist, but now all of that's changed since the disaster at New York. My parents were freed slaves, you see, and I found out in short order after coming here that a lot of these men don't really want a black soldier in their unit. They think it makes them look bad or something, so needless to say I've got a few things to prove."_

_Danny felt his vision swim. _Of course,_ he thought numbly. _I forgot that they still had that sort of thing in this century._ A pang of guilt shot through him._ I mean, I always knew it was bad, but to see Tucker's ancestor talk about it so plainly…

_He suddenly felt like the worst kind of scum. _It really puts things into a different light.

_Foley looked at him curiously. "Are you alright? You looked ill there for a moment."_

"_No," Danny muttered, still reeling from the revelation of his friend's ancestry. "I…I'm fine."_

"_I hope so," Foley grinned. "It's not healthy to be distracted once the fighting starts."_

"_So we're being sent somewhere to fight?"_

"_Probably," Foley shrugged. "As far as I know, no one got told anything. Only the Colonel and Sergeant Lancer know where we're headed, and they're staying mum about it."_

"_Great," Danny muttered._

_The now-familiar, musty odor of animal scent suddenly reached Danny's nostrils, and he turned just in time to see Corporal Baxter and his horse fly past. The raven hair on his head whipped into Danny's eyes with the force of Baxter's haste, and he felt his heart sink at the officer's worried expression._

_Upon reaching the front rank, Baxter slowed his mount to a trot as he conversed briefly with Sergeant Lancer. The exchange was short, and though Danny could not hear what was being said, it certainly looked important._

_The Sergeant's voice rang out over the steady crunching of marching boots upon the gravelly road. "Compan-y, halt!"_

_The 11__th__ New Jersey's progress on the march came to a screeching stop, and Danny only narrowly avoided bumping into the man in front of him with the suddenness of Lancer's command._

_Silence reigned in the midday heat, and Colonel Young's weathered face creased in concentration as he heard what Corporal Baxter had to say._

"_Report," Young intoned, his voice hushed as he nudged his own horse beside that of Baxter. "Weren't you and your squad supposed to be scouting ahead?"_

_The Corporal fought to catch his breath. "I did, sir."_

"_And?"_

_Baxter's face became drawn. "Sir, I have personally seen a force of British regulars encamped in the forests near Morristown, only a few miles west of our current position."_

_Lancer drew in a breath through his teeth. "We should turn back," he said, glancing at the Colonel knowingly. "You know what our orders were."_

_Young considered. "How many?" he asked, directing his inquiry at Baxter._

"_I counted around a hundred and fifty, sir."_

"_And they have no idea that we're out and about this fine afternoon?"_

"_Not that I am aware of, sir."_

_The Colonel arched an eyebrow, and Lancer groaned. "You're not seriously considering engaging them, are you?'_

"_Why not?" Young asked. "We have them outnumbered and we have the element of surprise. It's worked before, so why should it fail now?"_

"_Because attacking a patrol of twenty men is far different than going head-to-head with a fivescore and fifty of the King's men!" Lancer hissed. "That is not a raid, it is a pitched battle, and one we are in no position to fight!"_

"_Is that a lack of confidence in the men, or in me?" Young inquired softly._

"_It is not, sir."_

"_Then have my boys start marching, double-time," the Colonel concluded softly. "I want absolute silence. We must take the redcoats when their guard is down." Seeing that his orders went unchallenged, he added, "Lancer and myself will take the bulk of our forces and double back to the riverbank opposite the enemy's encampment. We'll use that position to draw their fire forward. Corporal, once we have the King's undivided attention, take the rest and open fire on the rear of the enemy's position. We'll box them in and they'll have nowhere to run."_

"_Yes, sir," the Colonel's subordinates said, saluting smartly._

_Young closed his eyes for a moment as Lancer and Baxter roared out orders. _

And so the game is afoot, _he thought…_

_Now..._

Near the banks of the fast-flowing Stonehollow River, no fewer than one hundred British soldiers relished a temporary break from the near-constant fighting that had turned New York and its neighboring colonies into an almost continuous battleground. Scarcely a day went by that the men of His Majesty's military and the traitorous Rebel guerillas didn't stain the colonial soil with gore in a series of bloody skirmishes, and thus the British soldiers, clad in their trademark crimson coattails, were enormously relieved at the unexpected prospect of a full day's rest. The Royal Marines were convinced that there were no militia snipers to be found here, those cowards who delighted in picking off British officers in twos and threes, and no danger of the enemy's sword or bayonet here in this tranquil glade. A lazy atmosphere pervaded as the sunlight dappled the water's surface, and more than a few of His Majesty's finest discarded their shirts and breeches in favor of cavorting about in the cool current.

One hundred and fifty soldiers had seen the sun rise that morning.

Not all of them would live to watch it set.

In the thick, leafy foliage of the trees and shrubbery that surrounded the British soldiers on all sides, Danny Fenton felt sheets of cold, nervous sweat soak his clothes as he gripped his weapon with shaking fingers. His teeth threatened to chatter like castanets with the force of his terror, and his stomach roiled and churned like a demented Cuisinart so as to make him nauseous with fear. The bayonet at the tip of his musket seemed to glitter with unholy anticipation in the sparse rays of sunlight that filtered through the treetops, its keen edge shining as if thirsting for the blood of Englishmen.

Danny bit his lip to keep himself from breaking down, the hard wood of his musket clutched tightly like one would hold a teddy bear. The firearm's lethal purpose had long since been realized in the dull silver piece of ammunition and black, coarse gunpowder that now lay within the barrel's confines, and the S-shaped hammer had been pulled all the way back by reluctant fingers. Corporal Baxter motioned with his sword for the fifty men under his leadership to bring their weapons to bear.

"Make ready," he whispered hoarsely. "Prepare to fire on my command!"

No one acknowledged the order for fear of revealing their position, but it was implicit that the order was understood. Danny felt his eyes water as he brought his musket to bear on the unobservant foe, and beside him, Foley winked in a silent gesture of support.

Fifty weapons took aim through the cover of Nature's bounty, the tips of their bayonets just barely jutting through the thick cover of vines and leaves…

On the other side of the river, Colonel Young was getting the vast majority of the 11th New Jersey's fighting strength into position. The grizzled veteran smiled fiercely down the length of his musket as he squinched one eye shut, his hand slowly rising above his head as he anticipated giving the opening volley.

"Hold…" Young whispered, his arm staying aloft.

Over a hundred hardened militiamen took aim with fluidity forged from days and nights in hard combat.

"Hold…"

In his concealed position, Danny tried to keep his knees from giving in.

The Colonel abruptly clenched his fist and swung it downward. "_OPEN FIRE!"_

_CRACK!_

The air became noxious and thick with the stench of spent powder, and a gust of white, sulfurous smoke drifted across the flowing current as the Colonel's men sent a devastating fullisade of musket fire shrieking to the opposite shore. Any unfortunates caught in the midst of their aquatic recreation were killed outright, their bullet-rent bodies bloodying the water as they toppled into the stream. The slain men's companions on land fared little better. The redcoats who had been caught napping or playing dice dived for their weapons as the comrades around them dropped like flies amidst spurts of blood, and the bodies of the dead lay strewn around the campsite like grotesque marionettes as those who had survived the first volley hurriedly formed ranks in the direction from which the firing had come.

It was but the work of a moment. The famous discipline of the British regular held firm as the redcoats formed ranks, aimed, and fired.

_CRACK!_

Another, burning cloud of gag-inducing smoke wisped across the corpses that floated lifelessly in the reddened waters, and Colonel Young grimaced as more than one piece of lead found its mark-

-Blood suddenly gushed forth from the officer's head, his skull shattered from the musket ball that had so quickly and suddenly slain him.

The dead body of Joseph Young pitched forward, and the starch abruptly went out of his men. The militia turned to break and run as the British charged across the stream, their bayonets fixed…

In a rare instance of spectacularly good timing, Corporal Baxter chose that moment cast away any semblance of stealth. "_FIRE!"_

A third volley shook the birds from their nests overhead, their frightened squawks contrasting jarringly with the shrieks of the British as Baxter's command hit them from behind. Agonized screams rent the air as the wounded toppled in clusters like bowling pins, and their arms and legs flailed rapidly before they drowned in the stream's murky depths. The river Stonehollow became so glutted with bodies that fording it proved impossible, and the redcoats foundered in their efforts to route the late Colonel's men-

Sergeant Lancer, as the next-highest ranking officer, snapped his bayonet in place before exploding from cover and sloshing into the shallows. "CHARGE!"

Shrieking like banshees and thirsting to avenge the death of their commander, the men of the 11th New Jersey fell upon the British without mercy as the will to fight returned to them. The lead flew thick and fast through the air as the two sides exchanged fire at point-blank range, and then the sky shook with the deafening clash of sword and bayonet as the fighting devolved into hand-to-hand combat.

Baxter leveled his blade at the enemy, drawing a pistol from his crossbelt. "COME ON, BOYS!" he roared, leaping upright. "LET 'EM TASTE COLD STEEL!"

Danny struggled to keep his footing as he affixed his scalpel-like blade to the still-smoking end of his musket, and his numbing fear reached fever pitch as he burst out into the open. Baxter's sword flashed in the sun as he and those under him closed the distance-

-Someone to Danny's left gasped and fell, and the boy became speechless with horror as Tucker collapsed with a lead ball in his arm. The British ranks had been thinned considerably, but the militia had suffered damage as well, and at the commotion behind them the redcoats had performed a classic maneuver called "forming square."

With astonishing speed, the British, still knee-deep in the stream, arranged themselves in a rough box-like shape with their weapons brought to bear on all four sides. The effect was to create a defensible position if one was attacked on more than one front at the same time, and now the strategy served its purpose perfectly. The Corporal left fifteen of his men dead and wounded behind him as he led the pell-mell charge into the teeth of the British formation, and Danny sobbed breathlessly at the blood that seeped from between Foley's fingers as he clasped a hand to his wound.

Something moved out of the corner of his vision, and just as he was about to aid his friend, Danny saw one of the enemy pointing the business end of a musket at his beleaguered friend.

Danny's own weapon was in his hands so fast it seemed to blur, and the ghost boy didn't even give conscious thought to what he did next.

With speed and precision, Danny sighted down the muzzle's length and pulled the trigger. Foley's intended murder slumped, clasping a hand to his chest as Danny's shot broke several ribs and punctured the aorta. Adrenaline coursed through the boy's veins as he tore the sleeve of his uniform asunder, binding it to Foley's arm so as to create a crude tourniquet. Under heavy fire and with the shot flying around his head, Danny hoisted his friend upright and seized a pair of pistols from the belt of a rapidly cooling corpse. The weapons were cocked and ready before Danny had even solidified his grip upon them, and he hobbled as fast as he could to the rear, firing all the way.

Each shot found its mark, bringing Danny's body count up to three. He did not stop to consider what he had done, nor did he even glance back at the trio of foes who now lay dead at his hands. The only thing that mattered right now was protecting his friend, whether it be in this or _any _century. Such was the urgency of his new mission that, in his haste, Danny surreptitiously activated his power of intangibility and hoped to God that no one saw the lead fly right through his body.

The chorus of battle made Danny's eardrums ring while musket fire chewed the dirt near his heels, and he threw away the spent weapons in favor of scavenging the musket of yet another fallen comrade. The weapon was discharged and discarded in a trice as Danny panted hoarsely, desperate to get Foley out of harm's way until someone could care for his wound.

The eddies and pools of the Stonehollow River became slick with gore as the battle reached fever pitch, and Danny's heart threatened to explode from his chest-

-Then, as suddenly as it had started the fighting stopped. Danny hazarded a glance over his shoulder to see the few surviving redcoats crying for quarter as they realized that the battle was lost, and Foley grinned crookedly as Danny propped him against the trunk of a tree. "Did we win?"

"Yeah," Danny said hoarsely, his stomach rapidly rebelling as the memory of his deeds returned in a flash. "We won, Foley."

"Where's the Colonel?" Foley slurred, his eyes crossed.

"Dead," a bloodied and battered Sergeant Lancer said flatly as he came up behind Danny, his boots still sloshing with crimson stream-water. The officer gave no indication that he had seen Danny use his ghostly ability."For now, I am assuming command, Fenton."

"Yes, sir," Danny mumbled tiredly, averting his gaze as his adrenaline rush subsided.

Corporal Baxter, panting and bloodied, led the exodus of ragged and battle-weary men from the river and saluted Lancer as he came within earshot.

"Casualties?" Lancer asked.

"Fifteen dead, seven wounded," Baxter replied, shooting a snide glance at Tucker. "Eight if you count _him._"

"We cannot remain here for long," Lancer told him. "If any more Loyalists or British are lurking about, the noise will have gathered their attention."

"And about the Colonel?" a voice called out. "We can't just leave him lying there like that!"

"Dig a grave for him, and you might as well dig one for yourself," Lancer replied firmly. "Every moment we remain here puts us at risk, and I doubt that Colonel Young would want us all to die for _his _sake. He was a fine commander, finer than any of us could ever hope to be, but he knew the risks…as did we all. If any of you are in need of food, ammunition or water, you have two minutes in which to acquire it," Lancer added, pointing to the now-desolate British encampment. "Corporal, pick five and have them make contact with any other Continental militia in the area. The rest of you form, ranks and prepare to move out. The war goes on."

_Later…_

Every square inch of the secluded, leaf-strewn glade where Lancer had finally called a halt for the night was filled with the exhausted men of the 11th New Jersey, many of whom had collapsed and promptly gone to sleep the moment their interim commander's order was shouted. In the dark, wet loam they lay, those exhausted soldiers, and the ones who had a little energy to spare made a meager night's meal over the scant, flickering light of a small fire. The smell of whatever was cooking was hardly appetizing, but Danny Fenton wasn't hungry, anyway.

Foley's wound was nothing to be laughed at, and Danny had been enormously relieved to see that his friend had survived the march without exacerbating his injury. As of now, Foley was sound asleep on a makeshift bed of damp soil and moldy leaves, thus giving Danny plenty of time to wallow in his misery and self-revulsion.

One thought, just one, ricocheted inside Danny's skull. _Those four men… I killed them. They were alive and then I shot and killed them. I'm a murderer!_

Danny almost retched, but the point was moot. He'd long since vomited up the sparse contents of his stomach in light of what the cruelest of circumstances had forced the kind-natured young man to do.

Everything gone from bad to worse for him, and Danny bitterly cursed Clockwork under his breath as a fresh wave of grief and sadness washed over him. "What have I done?" he whispered softly, struggling to gain his footing in the hope that a walk about camp would clear his mind.

Danny's boots shushed softly on the carpet of decaying foliage as he made his way through the campsite, and so great was Danny's angst that he didn't notice a small group of bewhiskered, gruff-looking mountain men turn as he passed their fire by.

"Hey, boy," one of them called after him.

Danny froze, sighing deeply as he turned around. _Another pun at my expense, huh? Knock yourself out…_

The speaker patted a rotten log that sat to the left of his own makeshift seat. "There's room for one more, ya know."

"Aye," another added, "come and sup with us. Ye look like a man fresh out of his grave."

_Are they serious?_ A bewildered Danny thought, his legs moving of their own free will as he walked toward the fire's sparse but welcome glow.

Danny's stained breeches became damp as he took a seat on the damp piece of wood, and the man who'd called to him thrust a small piece of something reminiscent of biscuit.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Firecakes," one of them grinned crookedly. "Made of flour and water, an' cooked over a fire."

"Be grateful for it, too," a fourth man added.

"We saw what ya did back there," the first man said, shucking Danny roughly on the shoulder in an encouraging gesture. "Mebbe ya got some spine in ya, eh?"

"Killed at least four of 'em, he did," the second soldier continued. "An' while carryin' a wounded man, no less."

Danny's face fell, and the first speaker patted him on the back reassuringly. "First coupla kills are always the hardest, lad," he said, his tone gruffly sympathetic. "It'll git easier after a while."

_I hope not, _Danny thought silently. _I don't _ever _want something like that to come easily to me._

"We ain't gotta respect yer age, boy, but courage like that don't go unnoticed," the third concluded. "An' we're not the only ones who saw, either."

Danny bit into his "firecake," the taste appalling as he secretly glowed at the praise of his peers. At least _someone _here wasn't convinced he was totally useless. "Thanks," he said, still a little bemused but glad all the same.

The first speaker nodded behind Danny. "Heads up, boys," he grinned. "We got comp'ny an' it ain't redcoats, either."

Danny turned his head at the very same moment a stubble-faced, lean-featured man toting a long-barreled hunting musket strode into their midst. Behind him marched a seemingly endless parade of grim-looking frontiersmen, who formed into an arrowhead with their apparent commander in the lead. Weapons bristled skyward like the feelers of some great insect, and Lancer met the newcomer midway as everyone present fell silent.

"Are you friend or foe?" Lancer asked.

The lean-featured man thumped the butt of his weapon into the loam for emphasis. "We have received the word that you put out, _Sergeant Lancer._ Now we come to answer that call…"

A/N: Sorry that this chapter is up a little later than usual, but it took a bit longer to type than the previous one. XD In the next installment, we meet the primary antagonist of this story as Danny receives shocking news, and the 11th New Jersey rendezvous with the army at the fabled place called Valley Forge! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. To AmuletSpade: Your idea is splendid, but unfortunately photography didn't come about for quite some time after the Revolution ended. Matthew Brady took photos of the _Civil _War, not the Revolution. But even so, it was a REALLY good idea, and if this WAS a Civil War fic I'd definitely use it! ^^


	5. Chapter 5

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 5: Winter Cometh

_New Jersey, November 1776_

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. _

The steady, synchronized pounding of hundreds of worn, mud-encrusted boots beat a slow and rhythmic tattoo upon the ground as the bedraggled and bloodied men of the 11th New Jersey Regiment marched into the new Continental headquarters. It was a place that would earn its position in the annals of history, written in the blood and stained in the suffering of all those who endured its enormous trials.

It was, in time, to become a frozen hell forever known as Valley Forge.

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp._

Onward and onward the late Colonel's men came, their numbers bolstered and swollen by the heavy-drinking, rough-housing men who had come in their scores and dozens to fight under the Patriot banner. All heads turned and all conversation ground to a halt as Sergeant Lancer, mounted on horseback, led the flood of grim-faced and battered fighters into the large camp that would serve as the Army's wintertime base of operations. Tents of white canvas and ramshackle huts of logs and branches sat in the squelching, sucking mud in almost perfect aisles and rows, many stained black by the almost-continuous smoke of the myriad fires that dotted the area with countless pinpricks of orange light. The flickering flames cast only sparse illumination in the early morning darkness that just precedes the dawn, and Lancer felt his chest swell with pride as his unit, fresh from the field of battle, gained the spotlight. They deserved credit, the Sergeant knew. The ambush had unexpectedly turned into a pitched battle upon Colonel Young's unfortunate demise, and the men who now followed Young's most faithful subordinate had been lucky to escape before the entire British Army came down on them.

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp._

As their ranks spilled into the fabled Valley Forge, Danny Fenton had to make a conscious, deliberate effort to put one foot in front of the other. He was _tired,_ but not in the way that one generally uses the term. No, this weariness went much deeper, almost into Danny's soul, and the exhaustion he felt not only burdened his body, but his mind and spirit, too. This was the age-old bane of soldiers down through the ages, from the fabled Greek Hoplites to the vaunted special forces of the modern era, the enormous toll that one's first experience of combat exacted upon him once the adrenaline in his blood disappeared.

It is and ever shall be known as the ubiquitous combat fatigue.

Danny was quite convinced that he'd keel over from the sheer weight of his weariness, and the only thing that kept him going as of this moment was the image of the straw-filled cot that called out Danny's name. The only thing he desired in the world was to sink into deep, dark, dreamless sleep, and thus relieve himself of this unbearable tiredness that hung around him in a cocoon of heavy chains.

Danny had been rather surprised when Lancer, after having received a missive from Washington's staff, had ordered the fires doused and all the men to fall in line for a second, forced march back onto the dusty, New Jersey goat trails. Washington had, Danny assumed, moved his headquarters to a different location, and this hypothesis had only been proved right when the 11th was ordered to rendezvous with the rest of the Army here.

It had been a grueling, fast-paced trek, Danny reflected mournfully. He and everyone else had had to march double-time back the way they'd come, and now his body was only just starting to suffer as the brunt of Danny's exertions began to set in. His uniform, too, which had at the beginning been worse for wear, was now nothing more than a rag. Danny's shoes were starting to fall apart, his jacket torn and ripped in over a dozen places, and his trousers stained and muddied in all the colors of the rainbow. He was, in short, a sorry, pitiful sight to behold as his feet marched doggedly on.

He glanced over at Tucker, who, at Lancer's order, was being borne upon a stretcher to the tent that housed the man who claimed to be a doctor. Danny felt a pang in his chest as his wounded friend smiled crookedly on the way past. Hopefully the injured arm in question wouldn't have to be amputated, which seemed to be the standard procedure for a wound that was even mildly serious.

Baxter's rolling voice carried over the monotonous sound of stamping feet. "Compan-y…HALT!"

Any and all progress on the part of the rank-and-file enlisted men came to an abrupt end, and Lancer brought his mount to a stop as he turned to address the men over whom he'd taken command.

"Fall out, " he said simply, gesturing vaguely around him. "And well done, all of you."

Danny couldn't help but notice that Lancer's gaze rested briefly upon him as the sergeant uttered that last sentence, and the men around him dispersed like a cloud of frenzied ants as the boy's comrades hurried off in search of food, drink, or rest.

Danny moved to be on his way as well, but from his literal high horse, Lancer laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Don't stray too far," the Sergeant said, his tone at once gruff yet possessing a hint of pride. "I would like a private word with you once I have finished delivering my report the General and his staff."

The boy was temporarily lost for words, alternating between shock and horror. Shock, because Danny had fervently hoped that the lengths to which he'd gone would remain largely unnoticed, and horror because the young man was now terrified that he'd unwittingly exposed his ghostly abilities in the heat of battle.

The chestnut mare upon whose back Lancer was seated trotted off, and Danny tried to dismiss the incident as he claimed a vacant tent for his own. The rough, filthy-looking cot had never seemed so inviting, and Danny sighed happily as he collapsed upon it like a fallen giant in an almost comatose sleep…

_Much later…_

The morning sun had already begun its evening descent when the toe of a boot cruelly kicked Danny's cot out from under him. Though a considerable length of time had passed since the boy's bedraggled body had _thumped _into the straw, to Danny it seemed like he'd only just closed his eyes before the machinations of Clockwork's ongoing punishment roused him once more.

He yelped in surprise, and Corporal Baxter smirked down at Danny's outraged expression.

"Get up, Fen-_turd_," he jeered. "Sergeant Lancer wants you to report the officers' mess, _now!_ Go on!" he berated his victim, adding another kick for emphasis. "Get moving, or I'll have you flogged in front of the whole army!"

_All right, all right, _Danny thought sullenly, trying to smooth down his hopelessly wrinkled and bedraggled uniform. _I'm going! Jeez, do _all _of Dash's ancestors get progressively meaner the further back in time you go?_

Danny's cowhide boots, now thick with several consecutive layers of encrusted mud and grime, made a wet _plopping _sound as he pushed the tent flap from in front of his face and stepped out into the encampment with a hurried pace. If this Lancer was anything like his distant descendant, it wouldn't do to keep him waiting.

Danny shuddered at the threat Dash had given him only just now. _I'll take a detention over _that _any day, _he said dryly to himself. _At least the most _that _Lancer can do is give me extra homework or something…_

The Sergeant's tent was not hard to find. It was, in fact, the same wood-and-canvas structure that had served as the dwelling for the unfortunate Colonel Young. As the next in line for command, Lancer had been given Young's old quarters as a mark of his rank, and Danny was actually somewhat envious. The large, spacious room the oversized tent afforded was certainly much larger than his own meager shelter.

Danny cleared his throat hastily, ducking to avoid a swinging lantern that had been hung on an elongated tent pole and dangled just above his head. A moment was needed for him to gather his nerve before Danny said, uncertainly, "Uh…"

That was about as far as Danny got before Lancer shoved the billowing sheet aside and beckoned him within. "Ah, Fenton," he said, his tone formal and dry like the Lancer Danny knew from his own time. "I'm glad you made it. I wasn't sure if the Corporal would be able to wake you; you certainly seemed dead to the world, you know."

_Did I have a choice? _Danny thought bitterly. _Of course not! _Nothing _has been up to me since Clockwork landed me here, so why stop now?_ Aloud, he replied, "Am I in trouble something?"

"Hardly," Lancer snorted, gesturing toward a long, wooden box on his makeshift desk. "Something for you there, actually."

Bemused and suddenly curious, Danny deftly unlatched the polished hinges that held the package shut, and he swung it open wide-

-_Oh, my God._

Slowly, fearfully, Danny grasped the curved, single-edged sword that still rested within its undecorated wooden scabbard. The weapon was plain and serviceable, its thin basket-hilt reminiscent of a knuckle-duster to protect the wielder's hand, its gently curved blade worn through use but keen enough to slice through flesh and bone with ease.

The meaning of the weapon itself was not lost upon Danny, and fear once again gripped his chest in its icy fingers before Lancer picked up where he'd left off.

"By the command of General Washington, Army Order Number Seven-Twenty-Three, you are hereby advanced to the rank of Captain," the officer said. "I myself have been ordered to take Young's place as Colonel. His death toppled over quite a few applecarts, so to speak."

"Wouldn't-" Danny cleared his throat. "Wouldn't Corporal Baxter be a better choice for this?"

"I considered that," Lancer admitted, "but truthfully, no. Baxter excels at _carrying out _orders, but he lacks both the initiative and the ability to _give _them. You showed great promise at Stonehollow Creek, putting your own life in jeopardy to save that of a comrade. That's exactly the attitude we need around here. I've got a lot riding on you, by the way," Lancer warned. "Some of my superiors were vehemently opposed to the idea of promoting you so soon, so don't make me look like a fool."

_I don't want this_, Danny thought desperately, but "Yes, sir," was all he could force himself to say as he resignedly strapped the weapon around his hip.

Lancer groaned slightly as he stood, his back aching from hours in the saddle. "Well, come on then," he said, gesturing for Danny to follow him outside.

He never saw the shadowed form of an unexpected eavesdropper slip behind a nearby barrel.

"What?" the Danny asked, oblivious.

"You really _are _new at this, aren't you?" Lancer snorted, resuming his former cynicism. "Those of higher rank don't usually dine with those below their station, Fenton. Though, as of yet, you don't hold a position of enough importance to receive such an honor, the General is willing to make an exception for you. It will set a precedent for those who serve under and alongside you to follow your example if they know such action does not go unrecognized."

Danny suddenly became rooted to the ground as his vision swam. _"What? _He-he's gonna be there? In _person?_"

"Were you expecting otherwise?" Lancer arched an eyebrow at him. "I would think that the rank of Commander-in-Chief more than qualifies one to dine at the officers' table. He actually requested your presence personally."

Danny struggled to keep his equilibrium in check, failing as it was with the weight of all that had so suddenly occurred. First, he had been so suddenly and without warning give a position that he under no circumstances desired, and the thought of having lives depend on his decisions and judgment made Danny quail. What if he were indecisive? What if he screwed up and got everyone who looked to _him _for guidance killed? Danny already had the blood of the enemy on his hands; the thought of staining them further with the gore of his comrades was more than the young man could bear. And _then_ Danny found himself upon the precipice of dining with one of the most vaunted and idolized men in history! To actually _look _George Washington in the eye, to speak to him and even sit _near _him, was almost overwhelming! It was like having dinner with _God, _for crying out loud! Hapless Danny, whose own selfishness and apathy had landed him in this predicament and spawned all the misfortune he'd suffered thus far, hardly felt himself _worthy _of such a thing!

A wave of guilt flooded through him. Danny had been so uncaring and had so callously dismissed everything Washington stood for, and now, by some twist of fate, had been invited to break bread with him. The irony was absolutely sickening.

Danny's heart felt as if it would burst forth from his chest as Lancer nodded to the two sentries who stood guard in front of the large structure where Washington's staff took their meals. Danny was shocked to see that it was only slightly larger than Lancer's! Surely a General wouldn't crowd all of his subordinates in _that!_

"I thought it'd be bigger," Danny muttered to himself.

Lancer smiled, and Danny flinched when he realized that the new Colonel had overheard him. "The General never treats himself any better than those under him," Lancer replied, his tone quiet and respectful. "He has denied himself the perks of his position, willingly sharing in every hardship his men are forced to face. Do _not _make light of the honor you have been given this evening," he finished, a warning note in his voice. "The General was by no means required to even acknowledge your promotion. Violate his generosity on your _own _head."

Danny shuddered. _But no pressure or anything…_

Something moved within the tent's confines. "Who's that?" a voiced asked, its words both bearing a hint of Virginia drawl and the clipped tone of one who had an extensive education.

"Colonel Lancer, in command of the 11th New Jersey," Danny's superior replied, keeping his own voice humble. "And Captain…What did you say your first name was?" Lancer asked in a whisper.

Danny felt like burying his head in his hands. "…Daniel," he said finally, though he much preferred to go by his more casual moniker.

"Captain Daniel Fenton, requesting permission to enter the officers' mess," Lancer finished.

"Come on, then," a second voice added, much more crude and coarse than the first. "Before the biscuits grow cold!"

Lancer ushered Danny inside with a firm but gentle push, and Danny felt his heart skip a beat at the man who stood, his back turned, at the end of the table. The customary blue Continental uniform he wore was stylized with embellishments that were obviously meant to symbolize many things, but their purpose was lost upon Danny as his breath caught in his throat.

The gentleman held some kind of map in his hands, seeming to study it intently before gently placing down upon a desk crafted from a barrel and a spare plank of wood. His hands were clad in white gloves, his breeches and coat immaculate and clean despite the muck that seemed to cling to everyone else. Even the silver buckles of his _shoes _were somehow kept spotlessly clean. A sword, much more elaborate and decorative than the one Danny now wore about his waist, was testament to the man's elevated status. The weapon itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its handle of ivory and inlaid with gold filigree, its sweeping hilt forged of glittering yellow metal and engraved with a pantheon of elaborate images. A tassel dangled in tandem with the varnished, hardwood scabbard, but more than anything else, this commander had some kind of _air _about him that made Danny want to avert his gaze in respect. The officer seemed to _radiate _quiet dignity, thoughtfulness, and compassion coupled with a sense for strategy and a talent for leading men. The weight of history seemed to swirl about him like some great, heavy cloak, and the hair on Danny's arms stood erect as General George Washington finally turned form his work.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, gentlemen," he said in that rolling yet cultured voice, gesturing toward several chairs that stood conspicuously empty. "Please, be seated."

Danny suddenly noticed how filthy and decrepit his _own _uniform was, and suddenly felt uncomfortably conspicuous. The sword, which hung heavy on his side, scraped against the back of the chair as the boy took a seat. The rasping of steel on wood was sufficient to cast Danny into the relentless limelight, and he almost flinched as all present looked him over with a jaundiced eye.

Washington nodded in thanks to an orderly who set a worn and chipped plate before him. The dish contained only the solitary leg of some kind of large fowl and a piece of bread that was mercifully free of mold. The only allowance that seemed to be made in regard to luxury was the delicate glass bottle of crimson wine that Washington opened with apparent relish, and he poured a measure of the scarlet liquid into his cup before passing it around.

"Madeira," a grizzled officer with a scarred cheek nodded in approval as he filled his own cup. "Just the thing to ward off the coming winter's chill."

_I'd rather have a thick blanket, _Danny thought dryly, hesitantly lifting his own drumstick to his mouth and taking a conservative bite. Though he _was _hungry, Danny didn't want George Washington to think of him as a glutton.

The General took a small sip of his beloved drink. "I was told that Colonel Young has been killed in the line of duty," he said, addressing Lancer. "He will be sorely missed."

The scar-faced man agreed, raising his glass. "I'll drink to that. A tooth-and-nail fighter, he was."

There was an immediate chorus of consent from all present, with the exception of a surprisingly tiny, belligerent-looking man in a coat and hat that differed somewhat from those of his peers. Whoever he was, he seemed to be important, for he caught Washington's eye without so much as a word.

"Ah, yes, I apologize," Washington said, apparently embarrassed. "Gentlemen, may I present to you the Baron Von Steuben?"

"A Prussian?" Lancer asked, curious. "I had thought they'd chosen to stay neutral."

"He doesn't represent the government of Prussia," Washington explained. "But he has a certain gift when it comes to training armies, Colonel. Our force, you may recall, is over one-third militia. They are brave, but also unreliable; we have seen their lines break time and again, and I can think of no one better to turn these men into proper soldiers than he."

The short and fiery European nodded. "Eet eez ein pleasure to be heyah," he said, his words heavily accented.

"I was also informed that there is on other among us this evening who is to be recognized," Washington continued, causing Danny to choke on his meal whilst all eyes turned to him. "Captain Fenton, I presume?"

"Y-y-y-es," Danny said breathlessly.

"Colonel Lancer spoke very highly of you in his briefing," the General said. "You demonstrated great courage, and we will require men of such caliber if we even hope to win this war."

Danny stopped himself from stammering and forced himself to speak clearly. "Thank you…sir."

"Now, my friends, on to new business," the Commander-in-Chief said briskly. "General Gates, you may deliver your report first…"

_Meanwhile…._

Corporal Baxter sat despondently in his tent, his veins seething with anger and jealousy over what he'd overheard in the process of eavesdropping on Lancer's tent. That boy, that…._amateur_, had already been promoted, given the position that Baxter knew was so rightfully his! What right did this upstart have to ascend the ranks so quickly, he thought, his heart bitter. He hadn't even been in the Army for a full month, for Christ's sake! And yet Lancer thought _Baxter _incapable, unable to think on his own two feet?

It was all Fenton's fault, Baxter growled silently. And one way or another, that kid would _pay…_

A/N: Uh, oh! Dissension in the ranks! And I know I promised you guys that you'd meet the _primary _bad guy in this chapter, but I just couldn't find a way to fit in without it seeming rushed. ^^' I WILL say, however, that the villain of this piece would do well in the military, seeing as how he's so bent on following _the rules…_And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	6. Chapter 6

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 6: Times That Try Men's Souls

_New Jersey, December 7__th__, 1776_

The recently promoted Captain Danny Fenton, unwilling time traveler and reluctant officer in the Continental Army, had never been more miserable in his entire life.

Winter had seemed to sneak up on him without warning, its fury not diminished in the slightest despite its seemingly sudden onset. Though the signs had been all around Danny the moment he'd touched down in New York City, with a light frost covering the ground every morning and the winds becoming just a little colder with each passing day, the light dusting of feathery ice had seemed to transform into feet of snow overnight.

It was so cold, the subzero temperatures actually _burned_ Danny's hands and fingers as frostbite threatened to make them as brittle as kindling sticks. His body shivered and shook, racked by waves of shivering paroxysms as Danny pulled a stiff, frozen blanket about his shoulders in a futile attempt to raise his already dangerously low body temperature. His lips were blue, the color of frozen raspberries, and the myriad of tiny icicles that hung from Danny's lashes snapped and broke whenever he tried to blink. His uniform, which had already been through the proverbial ringer, now sported a lovely assortment of crudely sewn patches and stitching, their poor quality attesting to Danny's lack of skill with needle and thread. His shoes had practically disintegrated, forcing the boy to wrap his feet in layers of cloth scraps and rags, and his teeth chattered so hard that Danny thought they'd crack. The howling, screeching dirge of the bitter, wintry winds was so piercing that it made Danny's ears _hurt, _and the hilt of the sword that still seemed foreign and heavy on Danny's hip was now encrusted with wafer-thin layers of blue ice.

And there was more.

Danny, as well as everyone else in Valley Forge, was on the verge of starvation. The disorganized, poorly managed supply lines that until now had trickled into camp had practically vanished with the onset of this infamous winter. The Continental Congress, from what Danny had heard, was little help. The statesmen who had thus far led the colonies in rebellion were either too focused on arguing with each other or simply lacked the power to get anything done due to the way the representative body was organized. As a result, both officers and enlisted men were now scraping the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, and Danny had, on more than one occasion, seen several consecutive days without eating a single morsel. Desertion among the ranks had skyrocketed, insubordination became commonplace, and the Army in general was in danger of collapsing altogether. The only reason Danny didn't seriously consider running off himself was that he'd only return home through Clockwork's good graces, and just up and leaving this point in the proverbial game would hardly improve Danny's position.

Life at Valley Forge was almost intolerable, and in Danny's opinion, Baron Von Steuben made it unnecessarily worse.

The foreigner whom General Washington had hired to whip the army into shape apparently took his job seriously. The small, fiery Baron hadn't wasted any time; in fact, the first thing he'd done was look over the Army roster and handpick a few hardened, veteran fighting units with which to begin. Von Steuben's strategy was to drill _them_ in European battlefield tactics first, thus creating "models" with whose assistance he'd train the rest of the rank-and-file soldiers. The 11th New Jersey had, to Danny's chagrin, been among them.

Danny was alternately bemused and absolutely _terrified _of the diminutive Baron. Though the new drill instructor hardly spoke a word of English, the language barrier didn't really seem to bother him much. Von Steuben would gesticulate wildly amidst a raw mixture of Prussian and broken English, swearing colorfully at anyone who failed to perform or execute a maneuver correctly. Danny and everyone under him had drilled ceaselessly with musket, sword and bayonet until their fingers were dotted with blisters and sores, learning to fire in organized volleys and how to move as a cohesive unit under the Prussian's jaundiced eye. Though the Baron's harsh tutelage had lasted only a few weeks, it had been enormously effective. Danny could now load, prime, and fire a flintlock musket in less than thirty seconds with smooth, practiced movements, and the twelve inches of steel that were affixed to the barrel's tip had been transformed into a lethal weapon in its wielder's grasp. The sword that hung by the young man's side was now a perfectly serviceable weapon of war rather than an encumbrance. The disorganized men who endured the cold and hunger were being transformed, bit by bit, into a professional fighting force.

A fringe benefit of the Baron's drills, Danny thought with bitter humor, was that they were a means to take his mind off the hardship and strife that now filled his waking hours.

In between the bouts of near-starvation, frozen paralysis and the Baron working him like a dead horse, the post of Captain had also brought a set of unique problems to Danny's concern. The position had put no fewer than fifty of the 11th New Jersey's most hardened veterans under Danny's command, including Foley and the bullying Corporal Baxter. Though he had shown great bravery and valor at Stonehollow Creek and thus won the respect of some of his peers, the vast majority of those who fell under Danny's authority held him largely in laughable contempt. That he'd risked his life to save Foley's seemed to alienate the men rather than win their trust, and more than one of them had quite casually voiced the opinion that Foley should have been left to die. The fact that Danny had even survived unscathed was attributed to only to the intervention of Providence, and since Danny had used his powers to rescue Foley there wasn't much he could do to dispute that claim. Baxter, in particular, had been outraged to be placed under Danny's authority, and the kindest phrase the Corporal had used to describe his new commanding officer was, "a rookie so green I can smell the sap."

That remark had stung, though Danny wouldn't admit it. True, he had never asked for and never _desired _any of this, but nonetheless Danny didn't want to be _ridiculed._

The combined weight of all these immense burdens was more than Danny or anyone else should have to bear, and thus he made a sorry sight as he huddled by the fire.

"What's wrong?" a familiar and _very _welcome voice asked.

Danny glanced up from his shivering as Foley took a seat beside him, and the boy's face split into a wry grin. "Do you want the long or the short list?"

"Either one works," Tucker replied, trying to smile back. "Still adjusting?" he added, nodding at Danny's sword.

"I never _wanted _this position," Danny said mournfully. "I'm not cut _out _for it, Foley! I've got fifty lives, _fifty,_ hanging on every single decision I make! How can I _do _this when one wrong move could get everyone killed? How can I lead these men when no one will even so much as give me the time of day?"

"Not _everyone_ thinks of you like that," Foley replied. "I know _I _don't."

Danny snorted. "Yeah, you and what? Three others? Four? _Gosh, _that's encouraging…"

"You just need an opportunity to prove yourself," Tucker shook his head. "They'll come around eventually, you'll see. Speaking of which…"

Tucker's ancestor removed a beribboned piece of parchment from the pocket of his bedraggled uniform and held it out to Danny.

"What's this?"

"Our orders, I think," Tucker shrugged. "You're the only one who gets to read it, so I'm just guessing. I hope it is," he continued. "'Cause ever since that Prussian guy got through pounding tactics and maneuvers into our skulls, _everybody_'s been itching for some action."

"Be careful," Colonel Lancer interjected as he abruptly cut off the conversation. "You might get exactly what you wish for."

Danny promptly got to his feet. "Sir?"

"If you would follow me, Captain Fenton?" Lancer continued.

"O-of course," Danny stammered, exchanging a bewildered glance with Tucker as the Colonel led him, once more, to the confines of his tent. The memory of what had transpired the _last _time Danny had been in here was not lost upon him, and he felt a trickle of fear weaken his knees as Lancer turned away, clasping his hands behind his back in a thoughtful pose.

"You have probably noticed," he began, "that the winter and shortages of food have taken their toll upon all of us. Washington is managing to make ends meet, but what little food remains to be had will have been exhausted by the end of the month. But despite this, we _cannot _afford to become sedentary, Captain. The morale of the Army in general has plummeted, and it is _imperative _that we secure a victory before enlistments expire in January. We have suffered defeat after defeat so far, and we _need _to show that we can beat the British, Captain Fenton. If this is not done, and _soon, _then the fate of the war is very much in doubt.

"To this end, General Washington and his officers, myself included, have come to the conclusion that, rather than wait for Cornwallis to come out of New York in the spring and hunt us down, _we _will take the fight to the enemy." Lancer gestured for Danny to take a look at a map that lay on his ramshackle desk. "The redcoats have employed a number of Hessian mercenary soldiers since the war began," he expanded. "Three regiments of them, under the command of one Johann Rall, are stationed here, at the village of Trenton. Before I go any further, you must understand that what I tell you next is _not _to be repeated under any circumstances," the Colonel's tone took on note of warning. "I assume you will do your utmost to keep the security of this operation intact."

"I understand," Danny said, and meant it.

"Very well," Lancer nodded, drawing his finger across the paper to accentuate his point. "This will be a three-pronged attack. General John Cadwalader, whom you met at Washington's table, will lead a diversionary attack on nearby Bordentown. General James Ewig will take 700 men and seize the bridge, here, at Assunpink creek, thus blocking any attempt of escape by the enemy. The main assault force will cross the Delaware River on December 24th, under the command of Generals Nathaniel Greene and John Sullivan. Once on the other side, the Army will split into two halves to attack Trenton just before dawn. Sullivan will launch his offensive from the south while Greene assaults the town from the north, thus hitting the enemy from two directions at once. If this operation goes according to plan, the Army will move on to reclaim Princeton and perhaps New Brunswick."

"Sir," Danny asked slowly. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We cannot take the offensive until we know the nature of Trenton's fortifications," Lancer replied. "Your objective is to gather intelligence on the Hessian's defenses so we know what we're up against. The men under your command are some of the best we have to offer, skilled in guerilla warfare yet able to put up a reasonable fight against the redcoats even _before _our Prussian friend arrived."

"So you're ordering me to spy on the Hessians," Danny concluded.

"Yes," Lancer confirmed. "And while you're at it, you can do us _all _a favor and destroy any patrols or wagon trains you come across, as long as your first objective is _not _jeopardized. Do not leave any witnesses, mind. Though I don't relish the thought myself, the fact of the matter is that the Hessians will come out in force and destroy you if they know that the enemy is abroad in the area. Once you have accomplished your assignment, you and your unit are to fall back and rendezvous with the main assault force at the Delaware crossing on Christmas Eve. You will deliver your report to General Washington, and the entire 11th New Jersey will participate in the attack on Trenton the following morning.

"Best get your men ready," Lancer concluded, waving Danny back outside. "You move out at first light."

Danny's stomach threatened to rebel as the chains of responsibility made his shoulders ache afresh. He turned to leave, but Lancer grasped him gently by his shoulder to stop his exit for a moment.

"The success of the entire Trenton campaign will be influenced by whether or not you acquire the information you are being sent to obtain," Lancer said quietly. "Failure is _not _an option for you, Captain. Either succeed and return…or don't return at _all_…"

_Epilogue_

Brigadier General Robert Walker of His Majesty's British Army was never in the best of moods, but today found his temperament even blacker than usual. His large hands furiously crumpled the letter they held into a ball, and the paper sphere went flying across Walker's spacious office as he silently seethed with vitriolic anger.

Walker was a career soldier, due in large part to his borderline obsession with following orders _to the letter _while paying painstaking attention to rules and regulations. This had, in turn, gained him favor with Lord Cornwallis and the other British army brass, and Walker had earned a reputation for both dependability and brutality in the ruthless attainment of his objectives. His bloodthirsty legend was well-earned: the lives of his soldiers were meaningless to him, for one thing, and Walker really couldn't care less about how many casualties he had to sustain to accomplish mission. His disciplinary methods for dealing with even the most minor of infractions were positively draconian, such as flogging a man for dropping his rifle and then rubbing salt into his wounds, but Walker was held in high enough regard to get away with such things.

His attitude toward the civilian populace of the American colonies was even worse. Walker was infamous for the utter butchery of any "traitorous" noncombatants who fell into his clutches, on one occasion personally overseeing the slaughter of sixty-three civilians who had sheltered some wounded Continental soldiers. This, by the by, was done in utter contempt for the rules of warfare that were commonly observed at the time, but Walker was so effective at what he did that he could act with near-impunity. In short, he was relentless in his ambition, unstoppable in his drive to carry out his orders, ruthless with his own men and positively savage toward those under Washington.

It was a huge blow to Walker's pride when he'd received a stinging rebuke from Cornwallis, based farther up north in New York City. Walker's superior had been furious when he'd heard that over a hundred of Walker's soldiers ambushed and slain near Stonehollow Creek just a few weeks past. The missive that Walker had thrown against the far wall was a venomous reprimand from Cornwallis himself, chastising Walker on being lax in discipline and threatening court-martial if such an even recurred. Walker, who had not yet heard of the fight at Stonehollow, was burning with both humiliation and a lust for bloody, merciless vengeance on the ones responsible. The Continental attackers had been identified as the infamous 11th New Jersey regiment, but the fact that the traitors' commander had been slain himself was of little comfort to the villain as he practically foamed at the mouth with the force of his wrath.

Such an injury could _not _go unpunished, Walker vowed silently. He'd see this band of contemptible rabble ground into dust beneath the heel of his boot, even if he had to chase them to the very doorstep of Hell…

A/N: Boy, talk about high stakes! I've got a feeling Danny hasn't heard the last of this! But will his mission succeed, or will Danny wind up changing the course of history forever? And what role will the disgruntled Corporal Baxter have to play in all of this? Find out in coming chapters! And please REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. On a side note, concerning the part where Lancer is discussing the strategy for attacking Trenton: that WAS the actual plan, just in case any of you were wondering. ^^


	7. Chapter 7

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 7: Seeds of Treachery

_Western New Jersey, December 16__th__, 1776_

All was quiet.

The silvery-white crescent of the waning moon lay amidst clear, velvet-black sky, its sparse luminescence casting thin rays of eldritch light on the densely wooded forest below. The stars twinkled and sparkled in the vast expanse of space like thousands of glittering crystals, more in number than the sands upon on the shore and the birds in the air. The heavens of the twilight hours made the fresh-fallen snow seem to emit a luminescence of its own, the pure-white flakes reflecting and magnifying the muted light of the moon so high above, and this painted a scene both awe-inspiring in its flawless beauty and intimidating in the ethereal, almost alien feeling it gave the casual observer.

Glorious and unspoiled though the night may have been, it was far from silent.

The ceaseless, constant creaking and scraping of legions of crickets was almost deafening in its volume, and here and there the screeching sound of the insects' mating calls was punctuated by the hoarse, toneless croak of a toad or frog. High above in the soaring treetops, a solitary yet unseen owl opened its beak and issued forth its haunting, hooting cry to echo for miles.

The British soldier who had been "volunteered" by his comrades to take the evening watch tried vainly to keep his eyes open as the evening seemed to stretch on forever, muttering bitterly to himself as he imagined his fellows sleeping soundly less than a hundred yards away. The smoothbore musket that the redcoat held by his side threatened to slide to the earth as sleepiness made his fingers weaken, and a drowsy glance over his shoulder confirmed what the Englishman already knew.

The train of canvas-covered, wooden wagons whose progress had been halted for an evening's rest lay exactly where their wheels had stopped turning in the loamy earth. The vehicles in question were merely a small part of the great web of supply lines that kept the British Army fed, watered, and armed, and the wearisome, boring job of ferrying supplies to some outpost or other was considered to be the most menial of chores. It was tiring, wearisome work for all parties involved, and the sullen attitude with which this particular band of His Majesty's men carried out their orders went a long way toward fostering ill-discipline and laziness. If a stern officer had been present with a stinging cane or the flat of a sword, things may have been different: the wagons, for example, would have been laid out in a semicircle to present some kind of defensible position in case of an attack. But as it was, no such action had been taken. These soldiers had found nothing but boredom and tedious work on the road so far, and they had absolutely no reason to expect anything other than more of the same.

The disillusioned sentry slouched back against the sap-encrusted trunk of a towering tree, as petulant as a schoolboy with the expression on his face. He reached for the canteen that lay strapped across his chest-

-Whereupon the arm of some unseen assailant clapped a hand to his mouth, muffling the guard's shout of surprise. The blade of a large hunting knife glittered in the moonlight as the attacker drew the scalpel-like edge across the side of the man's neck, severing the jugular vein without so much as a sound. The grass underfoot was stained with blood that turned black under the glow of the crescent moon, and Danny Fenton took a moment to wipe the blade on the dying man's jacket before gesturing to the men who waited, hidden, for the order to move.

Danny's face seemed to be set in stone as he reversed the grip on the weapon he held in his grasp. Unlike the engagement at Stonehollow, he didn't so much as glance at the dying man that lay slumped by the toe of his boot. Nor did he sob in horror and disgust at the life he'd taken, as he'd done when he'd murdered to save Tucker's life. Something in Danny's heart, that thing which is soft and tender in its purest state, had become unforgiving and merciless after over a week of almost-continuous fighting in the icy New Jersey wilderness.

The fires of war had hardened Danny, as it hardens all men. The recently promoted Captain had gained maturity far beyond his years in the course of what he'd done and seen so far, a kind of seriousness that should not be seen in one so young.

He had never enjoyed killing, and never would, but Danny had come to realize that in war, it was either his life or that of the enemy. Danny had slowly realized the awful truth: that here, on the battlefield, killing was not only encouraged, it was _mandatory_ for both the advancement of the Patriot cause and for Danny's own self-preservation.

Inwardly, he hated himself for becoming accustomed to such a heinous thing, and Danny knew that if he ever managed to return home, he would spend many a sleepless night in his bed before the memories of the lives he'd taken subsided.

But now was not the time for self-loathing. For now, the slaying of the enemy had been moved from the realm of the morally taboo to that of brutal necessity.

He had become a soldier.

In scarcely a week after moving his unit out from Valley Forge, Danny and his unit had rapidly attained a dubious honor as an almost Biblical scourge to any British unit that strayed into their path. Though the harsh lessons of the Prussian Baron Von Steuben had transformed them into seasoned fighters, a mission such as the one Danny had been given required him and all those under him to revert to the guerilla tactics that had served them well in the past. But the lessons learned at Valley Forge were far from forgotten, and in fact, the opposite proved true: the ability to surprise the enemy and disappear like smoke on the wind, coupled with the Baron's iron discipline and weapons training, served to make the seemingly diminutive band of Continental forest fighters very, _very _dangerous.

It went without question that Danny and his command were the source of many of the migraines that plagued the higher-ranking British officers. No fewer than eighty of His Majesty's finest had disappeared without a trace in the New Jersey wilderness that surrounded the small town of Trenton, and the fact that Danny held true to his orders and took no prisoners had a psychological impact on his foes. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on, but it was much more terrifying when one didn't _know _the identity of the attackers. So effective was Danny at disrupting British supply lines and inflicting casualties that even General Lord Cornwallis himself had, according to rumor, grown so exasperated that he leaned upon his sword until the blade snapped.

Though Danny himself was somewhat astonished at his success as his men, this was tempered by a more bitter truth: of all those he commanded, many of them still behaved towards their commanding officer in a manner bordering on blatant insubordination. The veterans over whom Danny had been given authority still felt almost insulted to be commanded by one so young, and with the exception of Tucker and a few other supporters, Danny's unit had made one thing mercilessly clear: the only reason they obeyed _any _of his orders was that the entire unit would fall apart otherwise. Without a coherent chain of command, they were all as good as dead, and thus they followed Danny not through loyalty but for the purpose of their own survival.

But the division among their ranks between Danny's supporters and dissidents was hardly apparent as the raiders materialized out of the foliage like shadowy wraiths, moving across the small glade with hardly a single noise to denote their imminent attack. Bayonets glittered dully in the sparse illumination, and Danny's sword rasped quietly from the scabbard as he pointed its tip toward the unsuspecting foe.

Like wolves going in for the kill, the Continental soldiers slipped past the British perimeter, and a second watchman gave a muted gurgle as Foley speared him through the throat with his bayonet. The luckless redcoat writhed like a stuck pig for several seconds, grasping at his neck until his hands were bloody, and only when his fingers had stopped twitching did Foley ease the rapidly cooling corpse to the ground. The steel weapon made a sickening _schliiik_ as Danny's friend freed it from the dead man's flesh, and a nod from the recently promoted Captain was all Foley needed to continue with the advance.

Stepping lightly and moving swiftly, Danny led his men into the heart of the British encampment, his darkened silhouette appearing almost demonic as he passed by the guttering fire. The snores of the dozing British let Danny know that they were all indeed fast asleep, and that gave him some measure of comfort as the Captain glanced down upon the redcoat who lay oblivious just a scant few feet away.

_At least this way, they won't feel a thing_.

Taking a brief moment to gather his nerve, Danny raised his sword and brought it down, point-first, on his drowsy foe. The steel tip plunged into the back of the man's neck, pinning him to the ground from just underneath the chin amidst a rapidly-growing wave of crimson. A swift, brutal tug freed the weapon from the slain Englishman's form, and Danny hefted the dripping steel once more as a second redcoat, just to his left, opened his bleary eyes in alarm.

Danny didn't hesitate. Without so much as a glance, the young man swiftly freed a flintlock pistol from his belt, pulled the hammer back, and shot him.

Danny's foe slumped, killed instantly by the lead musket ball that rammed into his brain, and shots rang out as those whom Danny had been assigned to lead systematically murdered the Englishmen that they'd caught off guard. Their work was swift and merciless; in less time than one could write it, the unsuspecting redcoats had been wiped from the face of the Earth, down to the last man.

Grief filled Danny's chest and made his heart heavy, but he swiftly stuffed it into the corner of his mind for later. It wouldn't do for him to sob like a baby in front of his men. They thought poorly enough of him already.

Foley, the barrel of his musket still smoking, nodded in way of salute. "Orders, sir?"

Danny still felt a little uncomfortable having his best friend in this century call him "sir," but to his credit, he didn't show it. "Take whatever you can find," he said, gesturing toward the wagons, "but don't get greedy, okay? We can't afford to be weighed down by anything too cumbersome. Rations, weapons, and ammunition _only. _ Burn everything else."

"Yes, sir."

Foley moved off to relay his orders to the rest of the men, and Danny's eyes were suddenly drawn to the man whose skull his bullet had cracked. The light had already gone from his eyes, and upon his finger, a golden wedding band reflected the crackling flames as the Continentals put the half-dozen wagons to the torch.

Danny struggled to keep his face straight as the memory was burned into his mind forever, his breath heaving and his heart pounding as he remembered a certain, ancient saying with newfound understanding.

_War is hell,_ Danny thought to himself quietly, turning to make his way back to his unit.

"Well, whaddaya know?" Corporal Baxter sneered, to the hilarity of many within hearing range. "Captain Fen-_turd_ managed not to get himself killed."

"Aye," another rang out. "But there's always the next raid! Hahaha!"

Shrieks of merriment made Danny's ears turn red, and Baxter fixed him with a hate-laden, burning gaze as he hissed, "You're not gonna be in command forever, _rookie. _All of this-" he gestured to the slain redcoats- "changes _nothing. _You may _technically _have authority here, but these men will _never _follow you willingly. Why Colonel Lancer even _bothered _with you I'll never know," Baxter added, taking a swig of plundered wine. "You'll be dead by spring, most likely."

Danny resisted the urge to take Baxter's head off with the sword that lay close at hand. He would have been justified in having him shot, but doing so when Baxter had so many supporters in the ranks might lead to open mutiny.

"I'm not dead yet," Danny said flatly.

Baxter's fingers inched toward his rifle. "Well, I can fix that real easy, if you like."

_Click._

The cold barrel of Foley's small pistol pressed against Baxter's temple, and the tension in the air rose another notch as Danny's erstwhile friend growled, "Point that weapon at the Captain, and I'll paint the tree with your brain, Baxter."

"So now I'm being threatened by a slave?" Baxter retorted. "Gosh, that's _terrifying."_

Tucker pulled the hammer back, his voice a poisonous hiss. _"I am no slave."_

"Well, you _should _be," Baxter smirked. "It's all your kind's good for."

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Foley oared, his finger tightening on the trigger-

-The flat of Danny's sword slapped his friend's wrist, and Tucker hissed in pain as he dropped his firearm. "Easy, Foley," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Don't let him get to you."

Tucker's breath was hoarse, his chest heaving in fury, but Danny's words served to lessen his anger. "I apologize, sir," he said finally.

"Accepted," Danny nodded, grinning back at him reassuringly before turning to Baxter.

The bullying Corporal lunged for his own pistol, but Danny's swordtip forced the other man's chin back. A prick of the skin sent a tiny rivulet of blood down Baxter's neck, and Danny's voice was loaded with menace.

"Drop it."

Baxter hesitated. The last thing in the world he wanted to happen to him was to be shown up by puny Fenton, but it would only take a swift push for Fenton to pin his sword to his brain. Hate seethed in the Corporal's veins like boiling water, and he silently and bitterly cursed Fenton once more for stealing the post that was rightfully his. Then, his cheek's burning with embarrassment, Baxter backed down before Fenton with everyone present. The pistol thudded softly to the ground at Baxter's feet, and his gaze burned balefully as he stared his enemy down.

The Captain disdainfully turned his back, walking in the direction from which he'd come so as to take the reins of a stolen horse.

As he did so, the massed cluster of onlooking soldiers parted as one from his path.

_Later…_

Many miles away, in his base of operations near the New Jersey frontier, Brigadier General Robert Walker stood at rigid attention as a field report was formally handed to him. Normally the courier would be beneath notice, but in this instance none other than General William Howe himself had come to personally deliver it.

Walker struggled not to twitch nervously. From the look on his face, Howe did _not _look happy.

"Don't bother opening it," the General hissed. "My patience with you wears thin, Walker."

"How so, sir?"

"Our scouts came across what was left of yet _another _shipment of munitions and supplies that had seemingly gone missing," Howe elaborated. "Do you know what they found? Twenty of His Majesty's men, _all dead, _and the wagons plundered and burnt to cinders! The enemy is abroad in the area that falls under _your _jurisdiction, Brigadier! Not a single shipment comes within six miles of Trenton without being destroyed! Walker, if you cannot protect our wagon trains from guerrillas, how do you think you'll fare with the colonial regulars, or the French when they arrive?"

"France is neutral," Walker stated.

"Don't be so blind," Howe sneered. "Do you really think that the Frogs wouldn't jump at the chance to spill the blood of Englishmen? They'll enter the war on the side of the rebels sooner or later, mark my words!

"_My _reputation suffers because of _your _incompetence!" Howe ranted. "If these…_peasants _continue to remain at large you will be _relieved of command!"_

"And how am I supposed to find them?" Walker asked. "The rebels do not fight like we do. They vanish into the forest every time I send troops out to destroy them."

"Walker," Howe said exasperatedly, enunciating every syllable. "_They're militia. _They're…farmers with pitchforks, for God's sake! Use bloodhounds! Burn the whole damn forest down if you have to! I couldn't care less _what _you decide to do, but one way or another, these raids must _stop! Do I make myself clear?"_ he growled.

Walker's fingers twitched at the thought of ringing the guerilla leader's neck. "Yes, sir."

Howe stormed out of his subordinate's office without another word, but no sooner had the room gone quiet again than a second man knocked upon the villain's door.

"Enter," Walker said, his voice tight with anger.

"A letter just arrived for you, sir," A young, dough-faced courier said, saluting smartly.

"New orders?" Walker asked. "From Cornwallis?"

"No, sir. It bears no identification of any kind."

"Who gave it to you?"the villain, now curious, gazed upon the innocent-looking piece of paper.

"No one, sir. It was found…" the messenger swallowed. "…on one of the bodies when we discovered what happened to the wagons. It was the raid near Trenton, sir.

"I'm aware of that incident," Walker said dryly, unrolling the missive and reading it quickly.

The grim expression on the villain's face was replaced by one of unholy joy, and the courier shuddered at the absolutely deranged look on Walker's features.

With a flick of his wrist, the villain tossed the piece of parchment into the fire, watching it burn to ashes. "It seems we have been given an opportunity," he said to himself.

"An opportunity for what, sir?"

The firelight made Walker's eyes glitter like pinpricks of unfathomable evil. "To bring down these detestable rebels…from the _inside…"_

A/N: Well, that doesn't bode well, does it? XD But what will happen to Danny and his men in the next chapter? Will our hero ever return home? And will the villainous Walker get his just deserts? Find out in coming installments! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	8. Chapter 8

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 8: Betrayed

_The New Jersey Countryside, December 17__th__, 1776_

Danny Fenton and all his men were making rather good headway, all things considered.

Though the occupied town of Trenton and the subsequent rendezvous with the Continental Army was still some distance away, and despite the fact that their progress through the densely thicketed forests of the New Jersey hill country had been slowed somewhat due in part to the rough and even somewhat dangerous terrain, Danny's command were steadily drawing closer to their objective.

And dangerous it was. Freezing cold, fast-flowing streams threatened to sweep away any who dared to try fording their frothing waters, and their banks were strewn with weathered boulders that could cause a man to slip and break his neck. Bears were everywhere in this wilderness, Danny now knew, for more than one had wandered amongst his men as they lay sleeping in the hope of salvaging meal scraps from the fire. Snakes slithered underfoot, ready to lash out at unwary ankles, and biting insects of all kinds plagued Danny's men from morning till night.

But, rough going aside, Danny still had no idea how in the world he was going to scope out Trenton's fortifications without being spotted. Even with the cover of a moonless night and the guerilla-style fighting tactics he'd so quickly learned, going right up to a stronghold of the enemy and observing it _right under his nose _would be extremely difficult and hazardous for all parties involved.

Danny took a moment to lay a hand on the hilt of blade. It was rather astonishing that this instrument of warfare, which had so recently made its wielder nauseous with the mere sight of its glittering edge, now served to comfort him in the manner of a child's favorite toy.

Danny took a moment to glance back at his men, many of whom trudged behind him with their muskets held over their shoulders at a jaunty angle. The soldiers' faces were red, their chests heaving and panting with the exertion, and Danny paused to wipe beads of labored sweat from his cerulean eyes before nodding in satisfaction.

"Hey, Foley," Danny motioned for his friend, who had been made his unofficial second-in-command, to join him.

"Sir?" Foley touched the tip of his tricorne hat respectfully, his cheeks billowing as he tried to catch his breath.

Inwardly, Danny was relieved that he wasn't the _only_ one upon whom this arduous journey was taking its toll. To be seen as such a weakling would only serve to solidify Danny's ridicule in the eyes of those he commanded, especially Baxter.

"Ten minutes' rest," Danny told him, breathing fast himself. "Then we move on."

"Yes, sir," Foley grinned in appreciation, trotting back to the rear to relay his commander's latest orders.

There was no need, however. The hard-fighting Continentals apparently overheard, though Danny had tried to keep his voice low. As one, they collapsed into the dark, rich earth, sighing in relief as their tired feet rejoiced at the short break from the march. Danny sat down with a groan himself, and if anything he was more grateful for the brief respite than anyone else. As Captain, he couldn't very well call a break whenever he felt like it, as such a thing would seriously damage the precarious timetable that he and his unit had been given. And, because he still desired the trust of those he now led, Danny had treated himself no better than anyone else in his unit. If anything, he was harder on his _own _body than those of his men.

The burning muscles in his lower legs made Danny grimace, but his mask of discomfort softened when Foley quite suddenly _plopped _down beside him and offered him his canteen.

"Care to wet your whistle, sir?"

"Don't mind if I do," Danny replied, taking the animal-skin pouch and taking a deep swig. "Thanks."

"No prob," Tucker grinned, sounding very much like his descendant from Danny's own time. "You'd do the same for any of us."

Danny snorted. "Yeah, try telling that to _them._ Those guys are _impossible_, you know? Nothing I do seems enough for them follow me willingly."

"That's largely Baxter's doing," Tucker growled. "Why in the world is he even with us anymore? Pulling a weapon on an officer is punishable by death, sir. You would have been justified in taking Baxter's head off right then and there."

"Baxter has a lot of friends," Danny replied. "If I'd killed him, I'd probably have woken up in the morning with a bayonet in my back or something, Foley. All I can do is keep proving Baxter wrong."

"I woulda shot him," Foley growled.

"Would that have helped _anything_?" Danny asked

"No," Foley admitted. "But it would've made me feel better."

"Save that hostility for the British," Danny told him teasingly, struggling back to his feet and hefting his musket again. "You'll need it."

"So will you," Tucker retorted good-naturedly, reaching for a weapon of his own-

_CRACK!_

A large puff of familiar white smoke suddenly emanated from the bushes, and an unshaven, lean-faced man to Danny's left dropped like a stone as his lifeblood gushed out at him.

The Captain was up and armed before his fallen comrade had even breathed his last, and the pistol that Danny carried with him belched fire and death as he discharged it in the direction from which the shot had come. There was an audible scream as something heavy _thudded_ into the soil, and Danny drew his sword as his men dived for weapons of their own.

All at once, a devastating volley of musket lead poured out of the surrounding foliage, and fourteen of Danny's troops suddenly collapsed to join their deceased comrade.

"TAKE COVER!" Danny yelled at the top of his lungs, his sword flashing in the sun as his troops melded with bush and boulder, their bayonets glinting wickedly as they protruded from all directions.

Fury boiled in Danny's veins, and he glared menacingly down the barrel of his smoothbore musket whilst his voice became somewhat calmer. "Ready! Take aim! Set! FIRE!"

With lethal precision, the Continental sharpshooters responded balefully to the sudden ambush, and Danny felt a sort of vicious satisfaction at the screams and cries of the entrenched enemy as his lethal fullisade found its mark. The air became so thick and caustic with the stench of spent gunpowder and searing sulfur that Danny's nostrils burned, and his heart beat so hard that Danny feared it would burst from his chest.

_How did they find us? _ Danny thought grimly, his fingers working frenziedly to reload the still-smoking weapon he held in his hands. The young man pulled the hammer back to fire once more-

-_CLICK._

Something cold and hard pressed against the back of Danny's head, and he stiffened instantly as his unseen foe slid behind him. He could hear the assailant easing from the underbrush, but his identity remained, as of yet, unknown.

Then Danny's newest enemy spoke, and the Captain felt the hairs on his neck stand upright in shock and alarm. There was no mistaking who that voice belonged to, and shock turned to anger as the traitor's voice sounded in his ear.

"Give me an excuse, _Captain_," the betrayer said mockingly.

Danny struggled to keep the hurt and furious expression from his face. "_Why_, Baxter?" he asked simply.

"As if I'd be content to serve under a weak little upstart like _you,_" the treacherous Corporal hissed. "I'd rather serve under _them _than have _you _calling the shots, Fen-_turd!_ I was the one who should have gotten the promotion, the rank that you _stole _from me!"

Despair rose in Danny's chest. "You'd kill all of these men, your _friends_, just to get back at me?"

"I'd murder three times their number if it meant killing _you_," Baxter snarled."And I'd not lose a minute's sleep over it, either!"

Danny, knowing that Baxter would quite literally blow his head off if he held on to his armaments, took a deep sigh and let his sword and musket fall to the ground.

"I'm glad you see it my way," the traitor sneered. "Now tell the rest of them to lay down their arms! _Now!"_

Danny had no choice but to comply. "Drop your weapons!" he called, trying not to let tears of shame blur his vision.

"What?" a bewildered Foley shouted. "Why?"

"Do it!" Danny shouted, his voice stern as Baxter steered him into the open to the consternation of all present. "That's an order!"

Foley's face twisted with hate at the sight of Baxter's treachery. "You'll pay for this," he snarled, letting his musket drop despite the uncontrollable urge to use the Corporal for bayonet practice. "Just you wait."

"Words are all you have left," Baxter smirked, taking in the sight of his former unit surrendering en masse. "And you'll lose those too, if I decide to cut out your tongue and make you eat."

_Clap…clap…clap…clap…_

Brigadier General Robert Walker clapped slowly as he emerged from his hiding place, a hundred of his best men close behind. "Well done, Corporal," he said. "You didn't disappoint."

"That makes one of us," Danny muttered.

Walker backhanded him across the face. "You've been a pain in my backside for quite some time, _punk_. I oughta kill you right here and now for not following the _rules_, but it has come to my attention that you possess certain knowledge that the British Empire may find useful."

Danny's heart clenched. _Baxter must have figured out that I knew where Washington's planning to strike!_ He thought. _I've got to get out of here!_

Within nanoseconds, the ghost boy was upon the precipice of disappearing from the visible spectrum and making his getaway, but then…

Danny hesitated for a moment, conflicted over what he was supposed to do.

_You could escape right now_, An evil little part of him hissed. _You could just forget this whole thing and hope Clockwork eventually gets bored. _

_But then I'd be abandoning them,_ Danny told the whisper, glancing toward his surviving soldiers as they were shackled and chained. _This British guy won't need them anymore if I escape. The only reason they're alive at all right now is so he can have leverage over me!_

The young man's mind flashed back to General Washington, and how the Commander-in-Chief had gladly shared in every hardship and ordeal his men had to suffer. Something in Danny stirred at the memory, and he made up his mind with swift determination. _I can't get away. Not right now, at least. Not when these men are depending on me._

_But once they're in the clear, _Danny vowed silently, _And when the time is right, I'll get us _all _out of there…._

"Are you a mute or something, boy?" Walker asked dryly, slapping him across the cheek again.

"No," Danny snorted, wiping blood from his chin. "I was just regretting that I didn't do more to hinder you than I already have."

"We'll see how long that tongue lasts when you get a taste of what I have in store for you, Rebel scum," Walker grated. "I doubt that one as young as you can endure so much pain."

Danny, by way of reply, spat right in Walker's face.

A/N: That is NOT good! What will happen to poor Danny and his men now? Will our hero be able to get everyone out safely? Will Baxter be brought to account for his treachery? And will Danny ever return home? Find out in coming chapters! I WILL say Chapter 9 is gonna be a bit of a doozy to write, so it may take a few days longer than usual for me to have it up. Just be patient, okay? ^^ As always, PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

But on a final note, guess what? Your old pal Quill has a date tonight! (I know, I can hardly believe it either!) Not only is she _very _pretty, but she's also into a lot of the same stuff I am! Oh, what a joyous day this has turned out to be! *Crosses fingers* Here's hoping all goes well, eh? Wish me luck!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	9. Chapter 9

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 9: Walker's Lair

_An Unknown Location, December 21__st__, 1776_

Danny Fenton flexed his wrist, testing the tightly knotted ropes that bound his legs and arms to the stiff, uncomfortable wooden chair in which he sat. The young hero had no idea where he and his surviving soldiers had been taken following Baxter's treachery, as Walker had taken great lengths to keep his base of operations shrouded in secrecy. So paranoid was the villainous redcoat about the integrity of his inner sanctum that Danny and all the other prisoners had been shackled and blindfolded, prodded along like cattle for a seemingly endless amount of time before Walker's brutal subordinates had shoved their captive into his confining seat.

The thick, woolen cloth that had covered Danny's clear blue eyes was suddenly removed, and he flinched as the light from several candles seared his vision. Though the actual illumination given off by the half-melted sticks of wax was sparse, Danny's retinas had become accustomed to the darkness that the rag had afforded him, so therefore the little light that was cast on the walls seemed blindingly bright.

Danny reached up instinctively to shield his face, only to find once more that his arms were tightly secured. A soft, cruel laugh sent shivers up his spine, and like a frightful apparition of malice Walker himself stepped from the corner of Danny's line of sight. The villain was wearing his captive's sword at his waist, a silent jibe at his seemingly-vanquished foe.

"I apologize if the accommodations aren't to your liking," Walker said, for all the world sounding like one receiving a dinner guest. "But you'll understand if I'm accustomed to a certain standard of living. But I believe we haven't been formally introduced," he added. "I am Brigadier General Robert Walker of His Majesty's military. I do hope you'll find your stay with us…_memorable._"

_Walker? _Danny thought. _Why am I not surprised? _"The atmosphere isn't much, but the view is _stunning_," he replied aloud, glancing at the dank, stone-crafted chamber with its filth-encrusted walls. "Where's your toady, Baxter, huh? I _know _he wouldn't want to miss this."

"I agree," Walker continued, stepping over to a desk in the corner and glancing over a sheaf of important-looking documents. "But I fear that our dear friend Baxter outlived his usefulness shortly after he handed you over to me. I have no need for an officer like him, you know. If he betrayed _you _so easily, he might very well do the same thing to me. And that is one risk I will _not _take."

Danny suddenly felt a little sick. _Geez, and I thought the Walker from _my _time was cold…_

The officer suddenly lashed out with his foot, knocking the chair to the stone floor and Danny along with it. The boy flinched at the jarring impact, and Walker grabbed him cruelly by his hair as he hauled him upright.

"I know that you have been taken into the circle of Rebel traitors who have _dared _to challenge His Majesty's rule," Walker hissed. "You have information I need, boy. And _you will give it to me._"

Danny tried to keep his eyes focused as his scalp threatened to bleed. "Drop dead," he snarled, swinging his foot upward and hitting Walker in the chin.

Walker staggered, and he took a moment to wipe a ribbon of blood from his chin. "A fighter, eh?" he asked, panting slightly. "Well, no matter. We have…_special procedures _in place to deal with prisoners like _you."_

The evil redcoat abruptly seized a small, evil-looking instrument from the corner of his workspace, and the iron tool's wickedly-pointed tip began to take on an orange glow as Danny's captor held it over a candle with an unusually large flame.

Walker waited until the metal point was the color of embers on a freezing winter's night, and he glanced at the foul piece of metal almost reflectively as he closed in upon Danny.

"I wonder how long you'll scream before you tell me what I want to know," Walker said softly. "And believe me, it only gets worse…"

Danny, however, had other ideas. _Don't bet on it, _he thought, fiercely determined.

The boy's eyes began to glow with an eldritch green light, and Walker, unnerved, hesitated for just a moment…

_Meanwhile…_

In the lower levels of Walker's headquarters, the remaining men of Danny's unit had been treated no better than their commander. In the subterranean prison they had been shackled upright to a long, slime-covered wall of cracked stone and mortar, and from some unknown source a steady _drip-drip-dripping _echoed through the cavernous darkness. Rats and cockroaches and all manner of vermin crawled underfoot as the soldiers' chains rubbed their wrists and ankles raw, and now many of them stewed in the misery of their own thoughts at the execution that undoubtedly awaited them.

"Whaddaya think it'll be, then?" a man chained next to Foley asked, his tone morbidly cheerful. "I hear the lobsterbacks are comin' up with all sorts o' ways to get rid of the likes of us."

"Hangin', most likely," a second replied. "That's the standard treatment, ain't it?"

"Aye, but maybe these fellows are of a mind to see us drawn and quartered," a third speaker added in a vaguely Irish lilt. "Tie each of our arms and legs to horses, they will, an' give each one a slap on the rump t'tear us t'pieces. I seen it all the time back home."

"Whatever it is, I just hope they do it quickly," yet another man put in. "'Cause if'n I get out of here, I'm gonna wring that kid's scrawny neck! 'Twas his own foolishness that got us here in the first place!"

"We was fools t'follow a _boy_," someone else agreed from farther down the row. "Look where it got us! Liam and Smith and thirteen more besides, all dead, and us waitin' fer the same!"

"SHUTTUP!"

Foley's indignant and outrageous cry brought about instant silence, and Danny's erstwhile friend took advantage of this to plead his commander's case to his fellows.

"What is _wrong _with you?" Foley demanded. "Are you all blind and stupid? You've all forgotten that it was that traitorous Baxter who got us in this pickle, not the Captain! It was _Baxter's _doing that got Liam and the others killed, not the Captain! How _dare _you turn against him, after all he's done? Weeks of fighting the British in the wilderness, and we never took a single casualty thanks to Fenton! Did we ever go hungry, even though there was nothing to eat except what we could steal from the redcoats? No! The Captain gave up his _own _rations on more than one occasion, so _you _guys wouldn't _starve!_ And _this _is how you thank him, by turning against him the moment things go sour? We'd _all _have died _long _before now if Fenton hadn't been there, can't you see that? You're all no better than Baxter!" Foley's voice dropped as he continued. "The Captain always took care of us."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Danny's supporter knew that he'd made his point. The air was so _thick _with tension and silent guilt from his fellows that Danny could have sliced it with his sword.

"Well, where is he, then?" the first speaker asked, his tone much more reasonable.

"I don't know," Tucker admitted. "But I _do_ know that the Captain won't abandon leave us down here. He'll come back, you'll see."

_At the same time…_

Danny could _feel _the heat emanating from the searing-red piece of iron as Walker slowly inched his instrument of torture closer to the boy's right eyeball. So indulged was the villain in his sadistic glee that he leaned right into Danny's face, his nose only a hairsbreadth from Danny's as he relished the sound of anticipated screams.

"When I'm done with you, rebel scum, you will beg for the sweet release of death," he murmured, gripping Danny by his jaw to hold the young man's head still. "But rest assured that you and all of your detestable followers will suffer endlessly at the hands of my men. I wonder how one so young will be able to endure _so much pain_…"

The heated metal was less than a centimeter away from putting out Danny's eye, and Walker let down his guard for just a moment as he savored his prisoner's fear.

Danny saw the opening and took it without hesitation. "Oh, shut up."

Suddenly and quite without warning, two solid beams of ectoplasmic energy shot from forth from the very ocular sensors that Walker had intended on crippling, and the sudden blast hurled the arch-villain off of his feet and into the far wall with a nauseating _thud. _Walker slumped, either unconscious or dead, and Danny swiftly phased through the ropes that had held him fast.

"Oh, and by the way," the hero said, pausing to retrieve his confiscated sword on the way out of Walker's office, "that's _mine!"_

But just before returning the scabbard to its place on his hip, Danny took a moment to study the piece of parchment Walker had handled earlier. The boy's eyes widened, and he hurriedly stuffed the missive into the pocket of his uniform. "That should come in handy," he muttered, his weapon giving off a metallic rasp as it slid from its case.

The curved, single-edged blade fit into Danny's palm like a second appendage, and its shining steel seemed to thirst for the blood of the enemy as Danny used his other hand to blow the door clean off its hinges. The splintered wood went hurtling down the hallway amidst shouts of confusion and alarm, and Danny brought his weapon to bear at the same moment a squad of Walker's goons came rushing at him down the hall with bayonets fixed.

Danny didn't even move, and the razor-edged pieces of metal went straight through him as he abruptly turned himself intangible. His assailants' carried on by the momentum of their rush, went several more paces before they were finally able to turn around again.

By then it was too late. Danny quite literally _materialized _in front of them, slashing the throat of one man and laying open the face of a second. Two men died in as many seconds, and Danny was up and moving before the bodies had fallen to the ground. He raised his sword upward to block a heavy overhead swing as a third redcoat attacked with a saber of his own, and the steel edges rasped together as Danny turned his wrist so as to sweep the weapon aside in a wide arc. The assailant gave a dying moan as the tip of Danny's sword emerged from between his shoulder blades, and the weapon made a sickening _schklik _as its wielder freed it from the corpse.

Danny didn't break his pace during the entire engagement, his boots making a frantic _pitter-patter_ as he rapidly descended a promising winding-stone staircase-

-Only to find that it was already blocked by more of Walker's men.

Danny wasn't discouraged, and his dripping blade speckled the ground with blood as he took the fight to the enemy. An ecto-blast from his palm filled the air with the smell of scorched flesh and bone as a man screamed, clutching his charred and ruined face before a devastating swipe from Danny's weapon nearly cleaved his head in two. The slain man collapsed, his fingers still twitching, and all thoughts of mercy and restraint left Danny Fenton's normally kind heart as he battled his way down to the catacombs.

The young officer used the basket-shaped hilt of his weapon as a primitive knuckle-duster, breaking a man's jaw in three places before a swift kick sent Danny's stunned foe hurtling down the stairs. But the hero was still seriously outnumbered, and Walker's soldiers closed in around him amidst as circle of snarling faces and menacing weapons.

Danny glanced contemplatively at his sword. _You know what? _Forget _this…_

The blade hissed like a steel snake as it slid once more into its sheath, and Danny swiftly held both palms outward as the ectoplasm began to course through his veins. The air became laden with the scent of ozone as the ghostly energy built up in Danny's body, and only when his power had convalesced into two orbs of verdant, glowing ectoplasm did Danny release the full brunt of his pent-up fury.

The effect was instantaneous. A flash of light that would have outshone the sun on a summer's day forced Danny to squinch his eyelids shut as his enemies were quite literally vaporized, and when the illumination had cleared, all that remained of those who'd stood in Danny's way were a few scraps of scorched uniform and some flakes of bone ash. The entire stairwell was completely blackened in giant scorch mark, and it was Captain Danny Fenton who was at its epicenter.

Without even looking over his shoulder at the carnage he'd caused, Danny hurtled deeper into the recesses of Walker's dungeon….

_Meanwhile…_

Foley gasped in shock and fear at the greenish-white glow that even some distance away from its point of origin was painful to behold. Cries of astonishment mirrored Foley's own fright and consternation as the light vanished as quickly as it was spawned, after which a singular pair of feet was heard pounding down the stairwell like a pair of pistons.

There was sound of a scuffle from farther down the hall, a noise a butcher's cleaver slicing through a side of meat, and then the unmistakable jingling of keys as _someone _lifted the ringing metal from a slain man's belt. Foley held his breath-

-And relief made his shoulders sag as Danny, wielding a chair above his head, smashed open the cell door with little apparent effort. That his commander had such unusually high raw physical strength was not lost on Foley, but then again, Danny's friend was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I told you he wouldn't leave us," Foley said, glancing about him poignantly as more than one of his peers turned away, somewhat ashamed.

Danny moved swiftly along the rows of chained Continental soldiers, setting his men free one by one until the last set of shackles lay balefully empty. "Where's the gunpowder room?" he asked.

The man who had less than an hour before promised to personally strangle Danny now tugged his broad-brimmed hat in respect and pointed down the hall. "That a-way, I think," he said. "But I could be wrong. What is it yer plannin', sir?"

Danny was momentarily taken aback by the change in the man's attitude, but he decided to ruminate on it later. Escape was the priority right now. "We're gonna blow this place to hell," he said, his voice hard as he ran in the direction that the soldier had given him. "I want you and Foley to set the entire magazine to explode, but make sure to give everyone enough time to get out safely. That means a ten-minute fuse, _minimum_."

"Yes, sir!" both Foley and his comrade nodded, speeding off down the darkened corridor.

Danny gazed about at the rest of his command, who were now staring at him with a mixture of respect and just a little fear. "I think it'd be best if we made ourselves scarce," he continued. "I think our host might be kind enough to lend us some horses to help us along our journey."

Ribald laughter rippled among the gathered soldiers, and with a wave of his saber, Danny and all his men thundered back up the stairwell to freedom.

Behind him, in the dim room used to house countless wooden barrels of dangerous explosives, Foley used the hammer of a purloined pistol to send a single, solitary spark onto the long trail of coarse, black powder that had been laid in a winding trail about the powder room floor.

At its center was a large, makeshift stack of crates and containers, all of them filled with that dangerous and iconic mixture of salt petre and sulfur known as gunpowder.

With a hiss, the makeshift fuse ignited, and Foley shot his comrade a fierce grin.

"Time to go."

Like smoke from an oily fire on a windless day, the two intruders were gone as quickly as they'd arrived, and it didn't take but a few seconds for the two soldiers to pinpoint their location of the Captain and the others.

After all, the only thing one had to do was follow the noise.

Danny Fenton, gore-stained sword in hand, stepped over the ravaged body of his most recent kill and swung the stable doors open wide. The Continentals wasted no time in claiming Walker's prized thoroughbreds as their own, and Danny gripped the leather reins in fists made slippery with nervous sweat as he swung onto the back of a pale white mare. Thirty-five hardened Patriots formed up behind him, and the horse whinnied and rolled its head as Danny dug his heels into its sides.

Like the vengeful hosts of the mythical Furies, Danny Fenton and all his men vanished into the night, the thunder of their horses' hoofbeats receding rapidly as they put distance between themselves and their place of capture.

Behind them, the spark that Tucker had set upon its ruinous path reached its intended destination.

The entire complex was practically _vaporized, _its walls disintegrated into clouds of choking mortar dust and razor-sharp chips of stone. The roof was blown skyward as Walker's headquarters tore itself apart amidst a swirling, churning fireball that spewed debris in all directions for miles around. The white-hot heat of the chemical reaction was so great that Danny could _still _feel it even as he galloped farther and farther away, and the mushroom-shaped, towering cloud of ash and smoke would have been almost toxic had he been close enough to breathe it in.

He paused to get a better look at the fruits of his vengeful labor, but after a moment Danny realized that every man present was staring at him.

"Uh…" Danny said stupidly, uncomfortable with the way his men were looking at him.

The man who'd first spoken his resentment towards Danny held his musket out, stock-first, in a gesture of loyalty.

"We owe you our lives," he intoned slowly, his tone both admiring and apologetic. "Where you go…we will follow."

"To whatever end that may be," Foley added.

Danny was somewhat stunned, but then shock turned to humility. "Then what are we waiting for?" he asked. "We have a rendezvous to make."

"But what about Trenton? We were supposed to gather intelligence," Foley said, somewhat fearfully. "We never even got there! We've failed!"

"No, we haven't," Danny grinned, flashing the paper he'd absconded with from Walker's desk. "Not even close…"

_Epilogue_

_The myriad of fires both large and small that hungrily consumed what was left of General Walker's former base of operations were still burning away hours after the last Patriot had vanished into the New Jersey hill country, and the bodies of fallen British soldiers lay strewn about willy-nilly like grotesque marionettes, some reduced to no more than scraps by the thunderous explosion. Piles of rubble and wreckage lay everywhere, many emitting the stench of putrefying human flesh as the men who'd been crushed under their weight rotted away in the searing heat._

_It was one such mountain of loose brick and stone that bore attention, for though it had been still a moment before, it now began to shake so violently that it seemed a miniature earthquake was taking place beneath it._

_The reality was far more sinister, for several pieces of heavy, shattered masonry were sent flying through the air as the scarred, bloodied hand of Robert Walker, its fingers twitching spasmodically, shot straight up out of the wreckage and slowly clenched into a fist…_

A/N: Geez, he just doesn't die, does he? XD But what will happen when Danny delivers his intelligence to Washington? Will the Continental Army succeed in their surprise attack on Trenton? And will Danny EVER get home? You'll find out soon enough, 'cause the EPIC climax of this chapter lies on the horizon!

And it's gonna be _spectacular…_

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. As many of you know, I had a date last night, and I am pleased to say that it went swimmingly! Thanks to all of you who wished me luck and sent me your encouragement!


	10. Chapter 10

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

_(I'm gonna say right now that the music, "Last March of the Ents" from the soundtrack of the movie "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" goes REALLY well with the ending scene of this chapter. If you like, you can find it on Youtube, by a user named, "kororago." Seriously, you should bring it up right now before you read any further. ^^)_

Chapter 10: Eve of Battle

_Prologue_

_December 23, 1776_

_Colonel Lancer's hand strayed toward the pistol that lay tucked securely in the saddle's holster, and with practiced ease he guided his chestnut mare further and further from the collective safety of General Washington and the troops that marched behind him._

_The Army was on the move._

_The infamous place where Washington's men had spent the night now lay deserted and abandoned, its tents and ramshackle huts empty of their former occupants while the fires lay devoid of the guttering flames. The soldiers had been ordered not to pay heed to sentimentality, and indeed they had not; cooking utensils, extra uniforms, bars of crude soap and other day-to-day accoutrements lay scattered about in the very places where their late owners had dropped them in their haste. Only tools of war had been carried out from Valley Forge in those predawn hours, and thus death was marching to the banks of the Delaware in the form of the bayonet, the musket, the sword and the pistol._

_Lancer nudged his steed up the summit of a nearby hilltop, and he took advantage of the increased elevation to once more reassure himself that British spies were not out and about in the area, that the secrecy that had for so long shrouded the surprise offensive on Trenton as yet remained intact._

_Something rustled in the shrubbery, shaking loose the generous amounts of snow that lay upon the trees to Lancer's back. Instantly, his sword flashed out of its scabbard with alarming alacrity, and the Colonel whirled his mount around to face the perceived threat._

"_Who goes there?" Lancer challenged. "Identify yourself!"_

_Danny Fenton took a moment to shake frozen precipitation from his black hair, and the men of his command formed up behind him in a wedge of glinting steel and whinnying horses as the weary Captain nodded in salute._

"_Gosh, that's a great way to welcome us back," Danny said dryly, shaking out the piece of parchment he'd stolen from Walker. "And after all the trouble we went to get this. That's gratitude for you, huh?"_

_A ripple of raucous laughter swept through Danny's men, and Lancer shrugged apologetically as he returned his weapon to its sheath. "My apologies, Captain," he said, holding out his hand and gesturing for Danny to hand him the paper. "But one can never be too careful, especially in times such as these. Now make your report. Did you obtain intelligence on Trenton's fortifications, as per your orders?"_

_Danny shrugged. "Well…not exactly."_

_Lancer's eyes narrowed. "Come again, Fenton?"_

"_Take a look at that," Danny's eyes fell on the scrap of tattered paper as a huge grin split his face. "I think the information it contains could be of use to us."_

_The Colonel duly unfolded the aforementioned missive that Danny had absconded with during his daring escape, and Lancer's eyes lit up like lanterns at what greeted his roving gaze. "And you're sure that this is accurate?"_

_Danny's mind briefly flashed back to his near-demise at the hands of Brigadier General Walker, and his smile turned rueful. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure."_

"_Excellent," Lancer nodded, before changing the subject. "Is Corporal Baxter with you, Fenton? His absence, it seems, is quite conspicuous."_

_Foley spat in the snow. "Baxter betrayed us," he said flatly. "He sold us out to the British and nearly killed us all in the process."_

"_You can't be serious," the Colonel said, stunned. "Why would the Corporal do such a thing?"_

"_He hated the fact that he wasn't promoted," Danny told him. "So he made a deal with the British to hand us over. I guess he thought his career would have been more satisfying in a red uniform."_

"_And what became of him?" Lancer couldn't help but ask._

"_Dead," A man to Foley's left sniggered. "And good riddance, I say. The lobsterbacks killed Baxter off when they didn't need him no more."_

"_A traitor betrayed," Danny's superior gave a thin smile. "How poetic."_

"_Um…" Danny glanced down at the Continental soldiers that marched past the hilltop where the impromptu meeting had taken place. "Shouldn't we…uh…'fall in' or something?"_

"_I believe you should," Lancer replied. "Which begs the question, Captain, of why you are still standing here conversing with me."_

_Danny urged his mount back into motion once more, his expression one of wry amusement as Foley and the others followed suit. No matter what the year is, he's still the same old Lancer…_

_Now…_

_Twilight, December 24, 1776,_

_This is nothing like the painting_, Danny Fenton thought, his aching wrists twinging as he strained at the muffled oars. The large rowboat in which he and several of his comrades sat wobbled pendulously with even the smallest motion of its occupants, and the wooden craft's bow rose and fell in the choppy current as it made slow progress across the ice-choked Delaware River.

Unlike the artistic work that displayed a romanticized image of the heroic Washington fording the Delaware's treacherous waters, the reality was quite different. Danny couldn't help but wonder what in the world the painter had been thinking when he'd sat down to work, for no one in his right mind would stand upright in a rowboat's prow when the river's current was this strong. Such a motion would certainly cause one to fall to his hypothermic doom n the freezing waters! Washington, like everyone else, lay huddled in the front of his watercraft as the snow and ice fell thick and fast, and if anything he looked more weary and haggard than anyone else under him.

He was, in short, a far cry from the stirring image depicted by Emmanuel Gottlieb Leutze.

A large, floating chunk of ice bobbed gently across the hull of Danny's rowboat, its blue-white surface bobbing rapidly in the swell, and Danny couldn't help but think that it was a miracle for even _one _man to pass through these waters unharmed, much less an entire army.

The wind howled its mournful dirge in Danny's ears, its chilling breath laden with driving snow and freezing ice. His fingers became stiff and numb with the cold, stinging with the strain of moving the oars in an endlessly repetitive motion.

Into the teeth of the screaming, freezing gale the brave Patriots rowed in a stubbornly determined attempt to reach the opposite shore. A veritable fleet of tiny watercraft clogged what little open water was left between the chunks of hazardous ice, and so tightly packed and great in number were they that one could walk for over a league downstream without ever once wetting his feet.

His entire body racked with chills and spasmodic shivering, Danny Fenton pushed his aching arms and hands to the proverbial brink, and his fingers became so stiff and numb that he feared snapping them off with each successive stroke.

A grimace made his mouth turn downward, and Danny bitterly regretted the thoughtless words that had landed him in yet another predicament. _Did Clockwork just dump me here? _ He thought despondently. _How much longer am I going to be stuck in this century? Am I supposed to go through the whole War before Clockwork sends me back to my own time?_

BUMP.

Danny's small dinghy came to an abrupt and rather jarring halt as its prow nudged a deep furrow into the cold, wet sand. The boy's arms sagged in relief, his sore muscles rejoicing at the sudden reprieve from his task despite the bitter chill. Danny threw the oars away haphazardly and clambered over the side.

He immediately found himself face-to-face with Washington. Again.

The General pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "I received the information you procured for us," he said quietly. "Well done, Captain Fenton."

"Th-thank you, sir," Danny stammered, as Washington mounted the white stallion that had been ferried across alongside him.

"Form ranks!" the General ordered, his voice calm yet seeming to carry for miles. "Fall into formation!"

Danny grabbed his musket hurriedly, hastening to join his fellows as the beachhead shook under their frenzied footsteps. The fact that Washington himself had taken command of this attack served to make his soldiers ever more rushed to carry out his commands, as it would not reflect well upon oneself or his unit if the General found them lacking. The soldiers rapidly disappeared into a sea of faces, in ranks more than fifty wide and fifty deep, and Danny realized, with a start, that these men didn't just _follow _Washington.

They idolized him.

Now, seeing the greatest man in American history majestically astride his mount, Danny finally knew why.

Washington's tone became louder, and his steed rode up and down the front of the American lines with seemingly restless energy. "Shoulder-ARMS!"

As one, the Continental Army brought their weapons up with a fluidity borne of hours' harsh instruction, and their firearms created a forest of remorseless armament that bristled like the spines of some gigantic sea urchin. Over two thousand glittering steel bayonets shined dully in the light of the stars above, and even the very _heavens _seemed to hold their collective breath in anticipation of what was to come.

"Present-COLORS!" Washington shouted.

From somewhere amongst the ocean of pitiless wood and steel, the Continental banner was raised to snap and flutter in the freshening wind, its fabric billowing and rippling majestically in seeming defiance of the screeching gale. Higher and higher it was raised over the heads of Washington's troops, and Danny felt a bolt of nervous thrill shoot through him as he gazed upon it.

In the rear, a score of battered and dented drums struck up a steady beat, and Washington pointed his blade inland to where the town of Trenton lay.

"Fo'ard-_MARCH!"_

_Tromp…tromp…tromp…._

With disciplined, measured steps, over a thousand men began heading to war, their muskets rising and falling in tandem with their rhythmic, steady pace.

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp._

Their flag waving high overhead, Washington's loyal men pounded the earth in an unending tattoo, many lacking shoes or even rags for their feet.

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp._

With the fate of his army, and thus the entire Revolution, on the line, Washington and all those who chose to fight for him left their footprints far behind them in the vast track of snow-covered wasteland. Many of these were stained with blood from injured heels and toes.

_Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp._

The Commander-in-Chief gave heavy sigh to himself, his heart heavy with both the weight of his enormous burdens and that of history. His breath came out in a small cloud, and Washington's voice was muted and hushed.

"So it begins…"

A/N: Hey, guys! Looks like things are coming to a head, huh? I know this is a shorter chapter than what many of you are used to, but trust me when I say that the next fic will be totally worth it. It'll be the EPIC BATTLE you've all been waiting for! I fear, though, that I must ask for your patience in getting it up, as writing Chapter 11 may take longer to write and perfect than most of the previous installments (I can't make any guarantees as to the _exact _date, but I WILL say that Chapter 11 WILL be written and it WILL be posted, come Hell or high water! I _never _abandon my readers.) I thank you for your understanding, my friends, and I assure you that the wait will NOT go unrewarded.

And Quill N. Inque always keeps his word….

(P.S. I also want to confirm that Walker WILL be in Chapter 11.)


	11. Chapter 11

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 11: Trenton

_Prologue_

_British Headquarters, Trenton, New Jersey, December 23, 1776_

_The Hessian mercenary commander, Johann Rall, was a dour sort of fellow by his very nature. His demeanor was coarse, his temperament fiery, and his attitude generally of poor caliber._

_The snowstorm outside wasn't helping either._

_Clad in several layers of coats, his feet adorned with velvet slippers, and a crimson nightcap perched upon his forehead, Rally bent over his desk and tried to pull his clothes tighter around his body. The roaring fire in the hearth not two feet behind him seemed completely ineffectual, and its flickering tongues of flame appeared not to raise the room temperature in the slightest. Rall shivered miserably, throwing himself into a coughing fit, all the while wondering why in the world anyone with their sanity intact would even _consider _settling here. Even the bitter winters back home in Europe seemed paltry compared to the screeching sheets of driving snow that continued to rage just beyond Rall's window._

_The Hessian reached for a crystal decanter, pouring himself a generous amount of amber-colored liquor in an effort to banish the chill from his bones. The mercenary went to down the tiny glass-_

_BAM!_

_The door to Rall's office flew open without a trace of the propriety that one would normally show a commanding officer, and the aging Hessian bolted upright from his chair with an indignant look upon his mustachioed face._

"_Vat eez ein meening of zis?" Rall demanded. "Vould it not keel you to knock like a ceeveelized person? You're letting ze cold een, eediot! SHUT ZE DAMN DOOR!"_

"_Be silent," a voice, hard as flint, snapped._

_Rall suddenly noticed who his impromptu visitor was, and what color remained in his cheeks rapidly disappeared as Brigadier General Walker brushed the snow from his shoulders._

_The villainous redcoat glanced at his Hessian counterpart, and Rall felt a chill go down his spine at the grisly sight. Walker's face, it seemed, was worse for wear. Some horrible happenstance had marred the Brigadier's once-handsome features; his entire face was hideously disfigured by the masses of scar tissue that had formed over the burns, the same burns that Danny Fenton had inflicted when he'd destroyed Walker's fortress. The debacle that Fenton had wrought at his now-demolished fortress had nearly cost Walker not only his life but also his military career as well, and only through his connections with several members of Parliament had the villain avoided court-martial. The charred, blackened flesh that had been the young Patriot's parting gift had only recently healed, but even though the searing agony of Walker's injuries had at last deserted him, he burned with hatred for Fenton every time he gazed upon the rubbery, disgusting flesh that had grown over the injured areas._

"_I am relieving you of your post," Walker said flatly. "Henceforth, all personnel in this base will fall under _my _authority."_

"_Und 'oo gave you ze authoreezation to do zees?" Rall asked, barely keeping his temper in check._

"_Is that a challenge?" Walker replied softly, his hand coming to rest on the pistol he carried in his belt._

_The threat, while nonverbal, was very explicit. Like a wolf before the alpha male, the Hessian said nothing and averted his eyes._

"_I thought so," Walker sneered. "Now get out of _my _office, please. I have work to do."_

"_Vat are you talking about?" Rall inquired on his way out, giving in to his curiosity. "Ve are safe heyah, ja?"_

"_Don't be so foolish," Walker snapped. "Your overconfidence will be the death of you one day. No bastion of defenses is invulnerable, you idiot, and if an attack does come…my men will be ready."_

"_You zink ve are a target?"_

"_I think that traitor Washington is unpredictable at best," Walker clarified. "He's out there somewhere, and after his defeat at New York it is reasonable to assume that he's not above a surprise attack, even in _this _weather. Nothing is more dangerous than a foe with his back to the wall, which is exactly the position Washington is struggling with now. Such pressure makes the enemy far more dangerous, like a wounded beast. No, I have a feeling he'll try something, but where and when is anyone's guess._

"_Now, once again, get out of _my _quarters," Walker snarled. "Try doing your job for once, instead of sipping brandy and playing the violin all day."_

_Rall hastened out into the cold, his fear of Walker overriding his disdain for the weather, and Trenton's new commanding officer began pouring over reports with almost unholy zeal._

_The blazing hearth continued to crackle and snap behind the villainous officer's chair, and though its scorching sheets of orange and red stood tall, they were nothing compared to the fires of vengeance that burned in Robert Walker's soul…_

_Now…_

_Early morning, Trenton, New Jersey, Christmas Day 1776_

The sun's golden rays had just barely begun peeking over the horizon as Danny Fenton strained to pull one of the heavy iron cannon into position. The wooden gun carriage was enormously heavy, and its wheels left deep furrows in the snow as Danny grunted and groaned under his breath.

The menacing blackness within the cannon's bore peeked over the hillside like the eye of some gigantic monster, and no sooner had it cast its thin shadow in the predawn light than it was joined by over a dozen of its kin. Twelve enormous guns bristled with ominous intent, balefully silent in the eerie quiet that precedes the clamor of battle. One by one, General Washington pushed his artillery into position, and with reassuring calm, the leader of the Continental Army stepped off of his horse to observe his men as they worked feverishly to load and prime the monstrous weapons with powder and shot.

Danny and his comrades worked with frenzied vigor, and the boy's face became somewhat dirtied as he went about his task. Tucker, working beside him, grinned hugely as the lethal iron payload disappeared within the cannon's mouth, seeming to delight in what was to come.

Colonel Lancer, his officer's blade in hand, raised his voice to an earsplitting level. "MAKE READ-Y!"

Twelve pitiless pieces of metal slowly turned their destructive sights on the town of Trenton, their attendants waiting with fuses in hand. From the cover of the surrounding treeline, the Continental Army marched forward in silent ranks of grim faces and steel bayonets, their muskets primed and their resolve hardened. The Patriot host poured out of hiding like a vengeful wave, their numbers formed in squares thirty wide and thirty deep. They emerged into the open just as the sun's light began to banish the darkness away, and in the glow of the newborn dawn, their steel glittering in the soft golden rays.

Danny felt his heart begin to beat a mile a minute as the relatively short silence seemed to stretch on forever. His hands became slick with anxious sweat, his senses heightened with fear and nervous excitement, and he gripped the haft of his own weapon tightly as he, too, fell in with his respective unit.

Then the surreal, frightening moment of calm and unnatural silence was over. At a nod from Washington, Lancer leveled his sword at the unsuspecting target. "_OPEN FIRE!"_

_KRAKKOOOM!_

In single file, the Continental artillery sounded off a devastating roll call, their barrels belching smoke and fire as they sent their deadly cargoes shrieking through the air. The sheer force of the recoil jolted the cannons backward a full six inches, and the sound was so deafening that Danny clenched his teeth and covered his ears.

The effect of the lethal barrage was immediately noticeable. Trenton spewed wood and shrapnel skyward as its buildings began to leak smoke and flame, and the pandemonium among its occupants was so great that Danny could clearly hear their consternation.

But there was one who was not perturbed.

Brigadier General Walker, his uniform worn sloppily due to his haste in donning it, snatched one of his subordinates by the shoulders and shook the unfortunate like a rag doll.

"Sound the alarm," he ordered as the village began to explode around him. "Have the men form up at the outer defenses! _MOVE!"_

"Yes, sir!" the terrified orderly shouted, darting off to relay Walker's commands.

Like an army of infuriated fire ants, the British and Hessian soldiers poured into the breastworks of Trenton's fortifications…

Washington was undeterred. Back and forth in front of the American lines he rode, utterly undaunted by the fact that the British were taking aim at _him_, and his normally gentle face grew somewhat harder.

"Fo'rard-MARCH!" Washington shouted, turning his horse around to lead his troops within musket range of the enemy.

As a single, collective body, the Continentals began closing the distance as cannon fire continued to screech overhead. Trenton, now looking somewhat worse for wear, began to shudder under the weight of the bombardment, and the heinous balls of cast-iron death sent up great geysers of snow and frozen earth wherever they landed.

"Take A—IM!" Washington shouted, his men instantly bringing their muskets to the fore so as to greet the enemy with a fullisade of leaden death. In almost perfect unison the Patriots took aim at the hated redcoats, their weapons like the spines of some enormous hedgehog as they bristled menacingly all along the ragged blue ranks.

Danny, shaking with fear, sighted down the barrel of his own weapon as he pulled the hammer back with a satisfying _click._

For one, immeasurably small amount of time, the entire Earth seemed to hold its breath in anticipation before Washington's order shattered it into infinitesimal pieces.

"_FIRE!"_

With a symphony of sharp, earsplitting _CRACKS, _the entire American line opened up with a cacophonous blast of whistling lead and stinging smoke, snorting fire and belching brimstone as they sent a wave of remorseless metal slamming into the British troops like a wrecking ball. In clusters and groups the redcoats collapsed as the Continental musket balls found their mark, sending geysers of blood spraying through the air amidst an unholy chorus of shocked and agonized screams.

But though the Continentals had caused significant casualties, Brigadier General Walker was far from intimidated. At his signal, the redcoats leveled their arms and took careful aim even as the traitorous Patriots marched into the teeth of their defenses.

Walker's face shined with evil joy, and Danny felt as if he'd been hit by lightning as he recognized the voice of his presumed-dead enemy. "_FIRE!"_

The air became thick with the stench of gunpowder as the British sent a volley of their own straight into the ranks of Washington's men with immediate and destructive effect. Americans fell like dominoes, their ravaged bodies _thudding _heavily into the reddening snow with dying moans and shrieks. The British gave as good as they had received whilst the Patriots marched into the teeth of their armaments, but visibility grew limited as the clouds of caustic, cough-inducing smoke began to obscure the battlefield.

Walker sneered contemptuously as he waited for the air to clear. "Go ahead and run, you peasant rabble," he said softly. "Run back to the wilderness like the dogs you are. You don't have the stomach to face His Majesty's men in open-"

Any further gloating on Walker's part was cut off quite suddenly as a generous amount of cannon fire began tearing his men to pieces. Round after round began obliterating the British defenders, making explosive contact while hurling weapons, soil, and assorted human detritus into the air. Redcoats were knocked off their feet and thrown in all directions with screeching cries, almost as if they had been swatted by the hand of some vengeful giant. Arms were shorn, legs were ripped clean amidst the sickening _snap _of bone, and the torn, savaged corpses of the slain landed with a series of nauseating _splats _while puddles of gore ran into the snow-bank. Like wheat before the farmer's scythe the redcoats fell, and the air became so loud with the shrieks of the injured that Walker felt his eardrums _hurt_.

Panic began to ensue as Walker's men realized just how exposed they were to the cannons' monstrous aim, and their fighting resolve began to waiver as the smoky cloud finally lifted.

What the redcoats saw next was hardly encouraging.

Washington's horse whinnied loudly, mirroring the adrenaline rush of its master as two thousand steel bayonets glinted wickedly in the morning sun, and the valiant General held his blade aloft as he urged his troops forward with a voice that seemed to shake the heaven and earth with the force it contained.

"_CHARGE!"_

With a collective, vengeance-filled roar that brought to mind a thousand angry lions, Danny Fenton and the rest of his comrades surged forward like a great tsunami of hard, scapel-edged metal, their weapons pointed right into the mouth of Trenton's defenses as they cast away all regard for personal health and safety. The earth shook under the force of their assault like the beating of some enormous, lethal drum, and the Patriots leapt over the bodies of their slain comrades as they literally _threw _themselves upon their British nemeses. The Patriots vaulted over the earthen bastions in which their enemies had entrenched themselves as the fighting disintegrated into savage hand-to-hand combat, and Lancer urged his men forward as he skewered a redcoat on the end of his sword and emptied the contents of his pistol into the skull of another.

"COME ON, LADS!_"_ The valiant Colonel cried, ducking a bayonet thrust and slashing his opponent's belly open before continuing on his way. "GIVE 'EM COLD STEEL!"

Danny Fenton needed no such encouragement as the cold, remorseless heat of combat overtook him. The young officer stabbed the nearest redcoat so hard that his bayonet severed the Englishman's spine, and Danny used his foot to free his weapon from the stiffening corpse before using the musket's barrel to block a saber's downward swing. The blade promptly lodged itself deeply in the scratched and pitted wood, and Danny took that opportunity to sweep his foe's weapon away before demolishing the redcoat's skull with the musket's stock. Bits of bone stung Danny's cheeks as his foe slumped, gushing blood and brains, and the boy turned around just in time to avoid a steel-edged lunge from the man who'd been advancing behind him. Danny twisted to one side so as to get out of the way, and as the redcoat's momentum carried him forward, the young man stabbed up and at an angle so as to plunge his _own _bayonet through the man's lower jaw and up into the skull. Danny's foe pitched over like a fallen tree, killed in a trice, and the boy who'd slain him wasted no time in laying open the face of one of his comrades. The sharpened metal carved a deep, crimson furrow as it sheared the flesh away, and Danny's opponent clutched his ruined features with twitching hands before he expired. The boy wasted no time on sentimentality, however; rather, Danny stepped over the rapidly cooling corpse and severed the throat of a Hessian. The mercenary gurgled, blood spilling onto his uniform, and Danny parted the man's head from his shoulders before moving on to forcibly amputate the arm of another. Danny's foe screamed, clutching his bleeding stump, and his assailant promptly ended his pain by plunging his sword into the unfortunate soldier's heart.

From one end to another the fighting grew ever more brutal and merciless. Shots rang out at random intervals as the clashing of metal mingled with the screams and shouts of men, and the air became so thick with gunpowder's acrid fumes that it burned the lungs. So great was the level of slaughter that bodies lay in piles three, four and five deep, and the ground became so wet with crimson ichor that soldiers on both sides slipped and fell. The carnage was so unspeakable that no printed word could ever fully describe it, this place where the Angel of Death had reaped such a gruesome harvest. Never had the fires of battle burned brighter than on this icy winter's day.

Walker casually slew a young Patriot who'd made the mistake of getting too close, his deranged mind reveling in the spray of warm blood that landed on his face. With cold, calculating insanity he slashed one of Washington's men almost in two, kicking the body out of the way and using the pommel of his weapon to drive a devastating strike into another Patriot's temple. The man's skull cracked and fractured audibly as his life was extinguished, and Walker seized the slain man's musket so as to cut down a Continental with practiced ease. Walker then reversed his grip on the weapon, using the club-like butt as a mace whilst he struck out in all directions. Ribs were splintered, skulls were shattered, and arms were broken as the madman vented his spleen upon the Patriot fighters, and Danny's comrades died in droves before his relentless, psychotic onslaught.. The steel tip of Walker's stolen bayonet emerged from between the eyes of another victim, and the unfortunate Continental's body fell to one side-

-Whereupon, completely by happenstance, Danny Fenton and his mortal nemesis looked each other right in the eye from opposite ends of the field of battle.

Walker's hand gripped the hilt of his weapon so hard that his knuckles turned white, and his teeth chattered with the force of his hate as he began to close the distance, killing and butchering anyone how dared stand in his way. Walker grabbed one of the Patriots by the throat and broke the man's neck without even breaking his pace, shoving the corpse to one side before partially severing the head of another. He lashed out like a rabid dog, pummeling one of Danny's fellows to death before ripping another's life away with a single, powerful swipe of his weapon. Walker's boots trod scornfully on the slain Patriot's corpse, and his eyes burned with like lanterns of hate as he anticipated Danny's demise, piercing a Patriot through the throat and hurling him bodily into several of his companions. Like a ravenous wolf, Walker pounced upon the stunned Continentals, his gore-slicked blade stabbing downward again and again until his opponents had been reduced to little more than bloody chunks of flesh and bone.

The young man in question returned Walker's enmity in spades, his mind flashing back to the fifteen soldiers who'd ultimately died at the villain's hands. Fury roiled in Danny's belly like a fiery maelstrom, and the point of his own weapon began seeking his enemy's villainous heart. Danny's sword and bayonet worked like the blades of a demented blender, stabbing, slashing and eviscerating with alarming speed as he hastened to bring about Walker's permanent demise. Like a tornado of remorseless steel he wrought death upon the British ranks, carving a long, deep laceration across a redcoat's chest before using the dripping blade to run another clean through, and Danny pulled his weapon free with a sickening, wet sound as Walker closed in upon him-

-But then Danny's eyes suddenly widened with panic , for when Walker was less than ten paces away, the villainous general pulled a small pistol from his belt, took brief aim, and fired.

_SPLUTCH._

Danny doubled over and gasped, his hand automatically clutching the spot on his upper left arm where Walker's shot had hit, and blood seeped from between his fingers as Danny clenched his teeth in agony. The musket that Danny had thus far kept with him fell into the snow, and the sleeve of his uniform became wet and sticky as the wound continued to bleed. Walker, seeing this, laughed callously as he swung his sword at the injured Danny.

_KRANG!_

Steel met steel with a ringing clamor and a rasping hiss as Danny brought his own weapon up just in time, and he strained to keep Walker's blade at bay as he slowly rose to his feet.

"I've been waiting for this," the villainous redcoat hissed.

Danny glanced at Walker's ruined face and smiled sardonically. "Actually, I think it's kind of an improvement."

Walker snarled, bashing Danny's blade aside before swinging his weapon in a scything arc of ringing steel, but Danny managed to duck out of the way just in time before taking a swipe at Walker's chest. The blood-stained edge scored a shallow cut on Walker's shoulder, and the officer sucked in a breath through clenched teeth before drawing a shallow cut along Danny's upper torso. Blood dripped from the wound as Danny staggered, flicking out his wrist and plunging his blade-tip deep into flesh of Walker's bicep. A spurt of crimson awarded Danny's efforts, and the young hero lunged forward to finish Walker off as his foe instinctively clapped a hand to his wound-

-Whereupon his tired and injured body was sent spinning to the ground, for Walker instantly removed his hand from the injury and backhanded Danny across the face so hard that the boy's teeth rattled. The sword was sent spinning from Danny's grasp as he landed in the gore-stained snow, and Danny tried to regain his footing before Walker's boot landed on top of him, trapping him beneath its leather sole while simultaneously driving the breath from Danny's body.

Walker's face was cruel as he leered down at his enemy, his sword still in hand. "Not so great without any trees and rocks to hide behind, eh?"

Danny screamed as the blade plunged into his flesh, but it was not a mortal wound. In keeping with his sadistic nature, Walker wanted to have a bit of fun with his intended victim first, and so he had stabbed Danny in the place where the boy's arm joined the shoulder. Tears of agony squeezed from Danny's eyes, and Walker closed his eyes briefly to enjoy his opponent's suffering like the taste of a fine wine.

It proved to be his undoing. So intent was Walker on his own evil pleasure that he did not see Danny's fingers crawling toward the firearm that still lay in the snow. Though Walker's torturous ministrations made every nerve in his body shriek with agony, Danny nevertheless gritted his teeth against his pain and stretched his impaled arm out to grasp his fallen weapon.

The young man's fingers closed around the musket's barrel, and Danny subtly slid the weapon over as Walker opened his eyes.

"Guess what?" Danny smirked, his smile undimmed despite his incredible suffering.

Walker instantly became alert, and the villain's face became drawn and pale as Danny hefted the weapon and pointed it right between Walker's eyes. "It's still loaded."

The last thing Robert Walker ever saw was the flash of gunpowder.

The evil redcoat fell over, slain in a trice, and Danny gasped as he removed his foe's blade from his body. His vision began to darken as his wounds began to take their toll upon his tired and bleeding form, but even as his strength deserted him Danny could see that the battle was won. The starch seemed to have gone out of the enemy upon Walker's sudden and violent death, and now many of those who'd served under him began to break and run while others threw down their arms and abruptly gave up the fight. Fierce pride made Danny's heart swell as he saw Foley herding an ever-growing group of prisoners out of the ruined fortifications.

Danny's lips curved into a smile. _We did it, _he thought exultantly, as the blackness began to claim him. The world became fuzzy and warm as his vision dulled, and Danny felt himself begin to grow limp as the sounds and smells of Trenton receded. His mind began to go blank, and just before Danny's consciousness was swept away, a single, familiar voice sounded in his ear.

"Time…_out."_

A/N: I think I know who _that _is! But in any case, I sincerely hope you all found this chapter extremely enjoyable. I know I promised you all an epic battle, and I hope with all my heart that it meets your expectations and lives up to all its hype… *Is nervous*

Coming up, the epilogue! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	12. Chapter 12

Shadows of the Past

A Danny Phantom Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own Danny Phantom.

Chapter 12: Epilogue

"_Awaken."_

From outside the boundaries of Danny's unconsciousness, a quietly sibilant yet gentle tone whispered softly in his ear, its ancient cadence layered with age like a dusty tome in a forgotten library. Slowly at first, and then gradually gaining momentum, Danny Fenton slowly returned to the waking world, his fingers twitching, then flexing with strength renewed. His eyelids fluttered, and again that eerily soft yet benevolent voice seemed made the hair on the young man's neck stand on end.

"_Awaken, Danny," _it repeated. "_It is time."_

The second utterance of that mysterious whisper seemed to act as a pail of ice-cold water, for the force it carried belied its lack of volume. With a gasp and a start, Danny's cerulean eyes flew open like window shutters, their gaze disoriented and somewhat scared as he bolted upright-

Danny suddenly flinched, expecting a twinge in his arm where Walker's sword had plunged into his flesh, but his heart almost skipped a beat when he realized that no such agony was forthcoming. Indeed, though his stunned gaze could scarcely comprehend it, Danny looked upon the limb that had been so cruelly marred to see now that the skin was unbroken, the bones undamaged, and the sleeve of his shirt unstained with the rusty red of oxidized blood. No scars did he bear, no bullet wounds or sword cuts nor any other painful souvenirs from the battlefield did Danny carry engraved upon his person.

Another wave of shock and disoriented confusion washed over him, for the tattered and bedraggled Continental uniform that Danny had previously worn seemed to have disappeared as well. No sword hung at his side, no musket lay strapped across his back, and no pistol lay tucked in the now-vanished belt around his waist. The ghost boy was now clad in his typical dress of white T-shirt and blue jeans, devoid of the foul instruments and accessories of war.

Danny's heart began to beat a little bit faster as slowly ran a finger down the length of the familiar wooden desk in which he sat. His pencil was still held in his hand, and Danny almost dropped it from his nerveless grasp as he gazed around at the still forms of his classmates.

It seemed as if someone had pressed a gigantic "pause" button on some all-powerful remote control, and such an allusion would not be entirely inaccurate. Lancer's mouth still hung open in mid-lecture, his chalk halted in the middle of its sojourn across the board. Dash and Kwan were frozen in the middle of their surreptitious texting, their phones held below their desks with their thumbs hovering over the tiny keyboards.

Clockwork, Master of Time and Keeper of the Eternal Sands, smiled kindly as he materialized out of thin air, his staff held lightly in an almost loving grip.

"Welcome back," the ghost said.

"What…? How….?" So great was Danny's confusion that he couldn't summon the brainpower to form coherent sentences. "What did you _do_?" he asked, after finding his tongue.

"That depends," Clockwork replied cryptically. "What do you _think _I did?"

"You turned me into a killer, for starters," Danny told him acidly, his voice cracking with grief whilst he glanced at his hands, as if he could see the blood upon them. "I've taken so many lives that I've lost count, did you know that? I've killed men in cold blood, thanks to you and your so-called _lesson_!"

"Do not despair," Clockwork's tone was sage. "You are free of guilt, Danny. I know that you have never and _will _never kill _anyone_. You could not have slain those men, for you never even left this very room."

"_What?"_ Danny asked, bewildered. "So…it wasn't real?"

"Oh, it was very real," Clockwork assured him. "Very real, at least, to _you. _You must understand, Danny, that I am the shepherd of Time, its steward and caretaker, rather than its overlord_._"

"Could you stop being squirrelly for just a minute and tell me what really happened?" Danny asked desperately. "I mean, I know you've got an image to maintain or whatever, but I could really use some answers here."

Clockwork grinned. "Danny, I will not deny that I was grieved at the contempt you displayed. But even so, surely you would understand that actually sending you back to an extremely important event in the timestream such as the Revolution could quite possibly have grievous consequences on the here and now. Such a momentous curve in the flow of time must under no circumstances be altered or changed in the slightest way; to do so would risk the formation of a paradox or even the creation of an alternate timeline."

"And that's bad, huh?"

"An occurrence like that would nullify all of existence," Clockwork agreed. "I have already taken that chance once before. You know exactly what I am talking about," he added. "Changing the past to prevent the creation of your future self was a gamble of such enormous magnitude that you could not possibly hope to comprehend it.

"Nevertheless, I knew that it would take more than a lecture to shake you from apathy," the ghost continued, "But there was no way to do this without jeopardizing the flow of time, so I improvised. The moment I appeared in your classroom, the very second I was through-"

"Yelling at me?" Danny grinned crookedly.

"Put bluntly, yes," Clockwork admitted. "For what it's worth, I _do _feel somewhat guilty about losing my temper like that, though I stand by my statement that your punishment was just."

"I could have _died!"_ Danny said incredulously.

"You were never in any real danger," Clockwork replied. "Now, if you'll let me finish?"

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, it was but the work of a moment for me to trap your mind in a powerful illusion," Clockwork went on. "I ensnared your consciousness in a dream-like state that replicated, with almost complete perfection, the world that I wanted you to see firsthand. All the things you experienced while in the spell's confines appeared as they truly were over two centuries ago, the events and occurrences playing out as they would have if you'd actually been there. What seemed like a trip to the past was, for all its realism, little more than a reflection, a shadow of that which has already come and gone." Clockwork's tone turned somber. "And now I want you to _think, _Danny. Through me, you have felt all that they felt, done all that they did, and seen what they saw through _their _eyes. You have shouldered every burden, taken part in every ordeal, and endured trials of such enormity that they would have broken the minds and hearts of lesser men. And with all this in mind, I must ask you…" the Keeper of Time leaned forward slightly. "_What will you take away from it all? What have you __learned__?"_

Danny was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "I learned the fear of approaching battle, the sting of defeat and the thrill of victory. I learned about suffering, starvation, and hardship, of trials endured, and sacrifices made. I learned the sadness of seeing friends die in battle, the horrors of war and the sting of oppression, and I felt how great the burden of history is upon one's shoulders."

"It's heavy, isn't it?" Clockwork asked with a wink. "Such a weight is not easily borne, but that doesn't mean that no one can carry it. Great individuals are merely ordinary individuals who answer a higher calling, Danny, those who fight for or work for something greater than themselves. And for the most part, they aren't famous people, either; _everyone_, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, has within themselves the capability to change the course of the future and be remembered for such by those around them, to leave the world a little bit better a place for their treading upon it. But like everyone else, _you _have to come to that decision on your own, for it is _yours alone to make_. You see, Danny," the ghost finished. "_True _immortality isn't about living forever…"

"It's about what you do with the time you _have,_" Danny added. "And what you leave behind for everybody else."

Clockwork smiled. "At _last,_ you understand."

"Yeah," Danny grinned back. "I do."

A/N: And thus, our tale comes to a close! I sincerely hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I LOVED writing it! XD And I do hope to see you all again VERY soon, for within the next week or so I shall commence publication of "The Emperor's Hand," which will be the fifth installment in my signature X-Men Evolution saga, the Historical KURTTY Series (Seriously, it'll be up REALLY SOON, so keep an eye out! ^^) While I'm on that note, I do wish to send a special and heart-felt thank-you to the readers of the aforementioned series for their patience in allowing me to write "Shadows of the Past" _before _"The Emperor's Hand." I know you've all been waiting, and I assure you that you will NOT go unrewarded! Furthermore, an even BIGGER thanks is owed to the KURTTY readers who read and reviewed this story is also in order, and so to Indigo-Night-Wisp, AmuletSpade, acosta perez jose romero, and Gabry, I send you all my gratitude! But we mustn't forget that there are others who are deserving of thanks as well, and thus I send a warm shout-out to ToiletFacility, DBack47, Codiak, Arteesta, Hinata28h, pearl84, CatalystOfTheSoul, KatiekkxD, Kokushoku Arashi Akuma, crazytechnicolrmess, itsbeenasecret, gothsamphan14, Biisaiyowaq, PhantomPhoenix4, Pterodactyl, Hikari Urania, ImNoHeroImTheVillain, Missing me, Uncontained-Epicness, Lord Jace, Nightwing 509, Wildfeathereddragon2, Danny Phantom Phanatic, and foreverfan62! You ALL have my eternal thanks for sending me so much encouragement and wonderful feedback, and I can honestly say that the response to this story totally BLEW ME AWAY! It gives me no shortage of joy and pride to present this, the final chapter, as a gift to you all!

I am, and shall ever be,

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


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